Bonfire Hearts
by GiraffeGirl
Summary: Francesca Hardy arrives unannounced in Holby, much to the chagrin of her brothers. She's clever, beautiful and fantastic at her job. But life? Life she finds tough. But she's in pretty good company in the ED, where Ethan, Caleb and Max are all trying to find a way to make it though. An alternate series 29 and beyond.
1. Brand New Day

**This has taken me the best part of a year to write so far, and I'm still not done. I'm giving you fair warning - it's long. If you don't like long fics, pass on this one. It picks up from the start of series 30, partially following the established timeline until episode 6: The Last Call. After that it deviates quite a lot.**

 **All constructive criticism welcomed. All I own are my OCs, who are too many to name off the top of my head. Clearly I don't own Casualty, otherwise there would be far better storylines at present (I jest - if this story has taught me anything, it's that plotting and pacing intertwining stories is actually really hard).**

* * *

 _You can turn the clock to zero, we're starting up a brand new day._

Max was tiring of the concerned looks from his step-sister and flatmate. It wasn't as if he was sobbing into his cornflakes or slitting his wrists in the bath. So he'd been quieter than usual over the past few weeks: so what? That should have made Robyn happy, given how much she complained about his guitar playing and general boisterousness. Besides, neither of them had expressed much interest in his love-life up until Zoe had left; he still wasn't sure that even Lofty knew the real reasons why the past few weeks had been so difficult, and Robyn seemed oblivious, assuming he'd had a fling with a nameless faceless girl picked up wherever it was he disappeared to. Max wasn't about to spill his emotions all over the place. Things were going to get better; he just wasn't sure quite when.

So now he was trying to fake more enthusiasm about the day's work than he was feeling. He knew he'd enjoy it once he got into it, he always did. But when Robyn was constantly asking him if he was alright, it was easy to forget that.

'I'm fine,' he said, sensing her opening her mouth again as they walked into work. The words came out more sharply than he'd intended and he bit his lip, damned if he was going to apologise.

'I didn't say anything!' Robyn protested. 'Lofty, did I say anything?'

'I don't think so.' Lofty pulled a face and Max felt his irritation relent a little bit. It was unfair to subject him to a dispute between siblings.

The good-natured part of himself said, 'Why don't we go out tonight?'

'You haven't wanted to go out in weeks.' Trust Robyn to point out the obvious.

'Tonight I want to.' Maybe if he kept saying it he'd start to believe it. 'Lofty?'

'Yeah, sure.'

'Good.' Max nodded as they walked into the department. Sure enough, he did feel the weight lift off of him a little as they walked through the waiting area. It was strange, given everything that had passed between Zoe and him in this very building, but being at work made things a bit better. He felt more like himself when he was taking patients to x-ray or being chastised by Tess. He'd get there, he knew. It was just a shame the journey was taking so long.

As ever, the ED was a hive of activity. Once he'd ditched his street clothes and pulled on his uniform, he headed into the thick of it. Almost before he'd drawn breath, Lily had appeared from behind a cubicle curtain, her eyes instantly alighting on him.

'Max, can you take Mr Russell to x-ray please?'

'Sure.' Nodding, he fetched a wheelchair from where it had been abandoned in the middle of the department. He hoped Tess had caught whoever had committed that particular misdemeanour.

It was only as he waited outside of the cubicle that he realised the crowd around the nurses' station was determinedly male, in the way that certain night-time establishments veritably bristled with testosterone. Despite himself, he drifted towards it, the call of the wild being stronger than the call of Doctor Chao.

'What's going on?'

Cal tore his eyes away from the direction they were all looking in. 'New doctor in Connie's office.' The information passed on, in as brief and efficient way as possible, he turned back to the important matter.

'Blonde,' Noel added.

'Hot,' Lofty added.

'You've seen her?' Max asked.

'Well… I've seen the back of her…' Lofty shrugged, embarrassed, and Max was unable to avoid grinning at his friend. It was a very Lofty statement.

'So, the plan is… lie in wait and ambush her?' Max wondered how long it was since this lot had chatted a girl up. Cal had the air and swagger of a player, but there'd been no actual action on that front as far as Max was aware. As for Lofty, well, Max wondered if he ought to forewarn his friend that Robyn was almost fully convinced he was gay by now: 'He's never once made a pass at me.' This being the standard of determining sexuality in their house.

'She's a colleague.' Cal shrugged, glancing down at the notes in his hand as Tess looked up from the patient she was treating with a disapproving look at the hormone-fuelled crowd in the middle of her department. 'We're being friendly.'

God, Max wished Zoe was here. It wasn't the first time he'd had this feeling in the weeks since she'd left, but it was one of the most intense. She'd have raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes along with him and then laughed about it later. It was her sense of humour he found he was missing more than anything; like he'd told her, no one made him laugh quite like she did.

Still, watching this bunch frantically appear to be doing something when Connie Beauchamp's office door opened was amusing in itself. Given that Lily was still busy with Mr Russell, Max was one of the few who had a legitimate reason for standing still when the new doctor came out behind the ED's clinical lead. It surprised him how intrigued he was by this newcomer; he hadn't had much energy for curiosity in the weeks since Zoe had left.

Lofty may have only seen the back of the new doctor, but Max could understand how his friend had come to his conclusions. Dressed in a respectable but form-fitting skirt-suit and heels, he expected even the back of her would pack quite a punch. The front of her certainly did. With shoulder-length blonde hair and heavy-rimmed glasses which, perhaps unwittingly, gave her the air of a sexy secretary in an adult film, there were no two ways about it: she was hot.

'Oh, a welcoming committee,' Connie said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she led the new doctor towards them. 'How lovely. Everybody, this is Doctor Francesca Hardy. Doctor Hardy has been working in the US for a year and I'm sure we'll find she has lots of new ideas she can share with us.'

'Shit.' Cal breathed out suddenly.

'Told you,' Lofty muttered loud enough for all of them to hear.

It wasn't the new doctor or Lofty who Max was looking at though. It was Cal, whose jaw had dropped in a manner disproportionate to how hot Francesca was. Somehow, he had a feeling he knew what was coming next.

Cal threw Lofty a disgusted look. 'That's my sister.'

* * *

'Let me just get this straight: you applied for a job in the same hospital as us, the same _department_ , and you just _forgot_ to tell me or Ethan?' Cal was fighting hard not to lose his temper with his sister, but this seriously had to be a joke.

'I didn't forget. I just didn't tell either of you.' Fran shrugged. 'Is it that big a deal?'

'A bit of warning wouldn't go amiss!' Cal pointed outside the staff room. 'Do you know how embarrassing that was? I didn't even know my own sister was starting work here today!'

'Well, sorry if I embarrassed you.' She didn't sound especially sorry. He didn't know why he was surprised by that, because he couldn't remember a time when she had been especially sorry.

'I assume you didn't tell Ethan either?'

'No. I didn't tell either of you.'

That did make it better, although he wasn't sure how the rivalry between the two of them had extended to who had the more meaningful conversations with their little sister. Well, Ethan's little sister, to be specific, which was only being emphasised to him today when he took in her outfit; she looked every inch a Hardy. It was times like these that their confusing family tree became so much more obvious.

There was always one thing that would hold them together though, one person, no matter how much Cal claimed to the contrary in his careful choice of words. 'And your dad?'

It was the first time Fran had looked even slightly abashed by what she'd done. 'He knows I've got a job. He doesn't know it's in Holby.' Before he could ask why, she added, 'I just didn't want everybody knowing until I'd definitely got the job.' Implicit in her answer was the fact that she didn't want everybody to know she'd failed if she didn't get the job. Cal could identify with that; he'd always been able to identify with Fran on that one. If being Ethan's older brother was difficult, being his little sister was equally as fraught with problems.

Remembering that made him remember how to be a big brother a little better. Letting out a long sigh, he asked, 'Where are you staying?'

'I've got a flat.'

'Is it okay?'

'It's fine.'

Still as independent as ever then. 'Okay. So… if you want anything today, Ethan or I can help you.'

'Mrs Beauchamp said Doctor Ashford would be my mentor in the short term, until I settle in.' There was nothing Fran liked better than sticking to rules. He'd forgotten that: the Hardys loved a rule and a reference and a box to tick.

'Right. But if you want anything else.' He wasn't sure what else she'd want. It had been over a year since he'd seen his sister, several years since they'd stayed under the same roof for even a couple of days at Christmas. Most of the time he thought of her fondly: Fran and her endearingly super-serious attitude towards life. She was the only person he'd ever known to have made a revision timetable and stick to it. The reality of her was something quite different though, and he'd forgotten that. She wasn't some new blonde hot doctor who'd need people to show her the ropes. He had a horrible feeling that by the end of the day, she'd be the one showing him the ropes.

'Sure.' She nodded. 'Anyway. I need to get changed. Could you tell Doctor Ashford that I'll be through in a minute?'

Cal nodded and she left the room with her hospital issue scrubs. Barely seconds later, Ethan pushed through the door.

'Was that Fran?' The surprise on his face at least supported her assertion that she'd kept this career move tightly clasped to her chest.

'Yep.'

'Did you know?'

Cal would have loved to have said yes, just to see his brother's face. But instead he shook his head.

Ethan leaned back against the door, seemingly winded from the news. He took his glasses off to clean them, a clear sign that he didn't know what to make of their sister's appearance in the department either. These moments didn't come along often; Cal thought he should savour it, enjoy the feeling of being in the exact same boat as his younger brother.

He stood up and left the staff room. There were patients to see.

* * *

Fran cast her eye over the x-ray. The girl had fallen during a game of hockey at school and had soldiered on with an assumed sprained ankle. Fran suspected her mother would have something to say to the school when she revealed that the fifth metatarsal had not only been fractured but displaced through the repeated weight the girl had put on it. Still, that wasn't any of her business. What was her business was what she did next.

'Doctor Ashford, could you check something?'

'Sure. And Ash is fine. It's what everybody else calls me.' He took the tablet off of her and looked at the outline of the girl's bones. 'Clean break but badly displaced.'

'Yes.'

'No breakage of the skin?'

'No.'

'What would you suggest doing now?'

'Plaster obviously. It might need pinning, and I've already sent the x-ray to orthopaedics, but I have seen it manipulated back into place in the past, so I thought I'd try that first.'

'Will you give her any pain relief?'

'Gas and air.'

Ash treated her to a smile. 'Sounds like you've got it covered. Let me know if you need any help.'

Fran nodded her thanks before heading back towards the cubicle to relay the news to – she checked the name on the x-ray – Rachel Anderson and her mother. So far, so good. There'd not been much of an opportunity to stretch herself as yet, but she had high hopes. The emails she'd had from Cal since he'd come to Holby were full of exciting news; she hadn't ever seen her brother (because she didn't know what else she could call somebody who she was related to by all but blood) so fired up. Predictably, Ethan had been his characteristically uncommunicative self since she'd gone to the States. That was something she might have to address as soon as she'd dealt with her next patient.

Breezing into the cubicle now, she put on the smile she reserved for treating patients: professional, calming and devoid of any real sentiment. 'Rachel, thank you for waiting. We've got your x-ray back.'

'And?' Mrs Anderson practically jumped across the bed at her.

Fran blinked. She'd forgotten what working with children was like; it was as much about treating the parents as the patient themselves. She turned the smile up a notch, even as she was aware that it didn't go with the news she was delivering. 'There is a significant break on the fifth metatarsal. That's the bone which runs down the side of your foot, Rachel. It's a clean break, but the bone is displaced. It may be that you have to have a small operation to pin it back into place. I've passed your details to orthopaedics and the specialists will be in touch when they've had a look. In the short term, I'd like to manipulate the bone back into place before plastering it.'

It was Mrs Anderson's turn to blink and Fran felt a familiar irritation rise up within her. She thought she'd been clear in her explanation, but it looked like she'd have to repeat herself. Again.

'So what are you saying? She needs an operation?'

'It may be that she needs one, but that's for the specialists to decide. For now, I'd like for Rachel to be able to go home, so I'm going to try to move the bone back into line and then get one of our nurses to plaster her foot to hold it in place.' Fran thought she'd spoken more slowly that time. Before she could repeat herself for a third time, she stepped towards the nurses' station. 'I'll find a nurse to help. I won't be a minute.'

She hoped she wouldn't be a minute anyway. The thing which always threw her when she started a new job was the vast amount of names to learn. Putting names to faces and vice versa was a skill she'd never mastered, and she doubted she ever would. Doctor Ashford – Ash, she repeated to herself, hoping the name would stick – had given her a brief introduction to the department earlier. Now, as she looked at the people in front of her, not a single name would come into her mind.

'Can I help?' The curly-haired nurse was standing in front of her, eager to please, much like a spaniel. Fran tried to curb her smile at the immediate association she'd made and focus on his name badge.

'Could you help me with plastering a patient's leg please… Ben?' She hoped she hadn't squinted too much; terrible eye-sight was an unfortunate Hardy trait.

'Most people call me Lofty.' He grinned again. 'I'll get the kit.'

Lofty. Ash. Fran wondered if anybody was called by their real name here. It was quite a long way from the private hospitals she'd been working at in the US for the past year. It wasn't that she thought it was unprofessional, just a bit strange. Besides which, Lofty was a terrible name for a spaniel. There went another attempt at memorising names.

* * *

Ethan couldn't believe how long it had been since he'd seen his little sister in person. Skype didn't, and never had, counted in his book. Being physically there was important. Which was why it was so difficult to feel pleased to see her now.

Pushing open the staffroom door, he was unable to put off the moment of truth any longer. He'd seen her around the department that morning, looking efficient and effortlessly in control but they hadn't spoken yet. He supposed there was no time like the present.

She dragged her attention away from the journal in front of her. 'Ethan!' Then followed the usual awkward moment, when most families would hug or show some form of affection, and instead they hovered in silence. 'How are you?'

'Fine.'

For the first time, he saw a flicker of guilt pass across her face. 'I'm… sorry I couldn't make it back for your mum's funeral.' That she knew exactly why he was less than impressed to see her was progress of a sort, he had to admit that much.

Even so, it was far too little far too late. 'Or send a card.'

'Ethan…'

'Or phone me or even send an email.' He straightened his glasses, surprised to find his hand trembling. This was not a conversation he'd wanted to have within seconds of seeing his little sister for the first time in over twelve months. He hadn't realised he felt this angry about it until she'd sashayed into the department this morning.

'You hate it when I do that.' True, but that wasn't good enough. 'Ethan, it wasn't that simple, I couldn't just come back. She wasn't my mum…' She tailed off and bit her lip as she realised what she'd said. Again, the truth wasn't good enough on this occasion.

Ethan left an uncomfortable silence before saying, devastatingly calmly, 'It would have been nice if you'd been here.'

'You had Cal.'

'That's supposed to be a positive?' He wasn't sure if she was joking or not. If she was, it wasn't funny. If she wasn't, he wondered how long she thought she'd been away for.

'He _is_ your brother. She was his mum too.'

'Maybe you could let him know that then.'

It seemed like she was about to stick up for Cal then, like she almost always did. Ethan wasn't sure why that was. In his mind, there was a vast gulf between impulsive, irrational, reckless Caleb and methodical, exacting, control-freak Francesca. He'd never been able to work out why his two half-siblings so often ended up on one side of the fence whilst he languished on the other.

Then she seemed to think better of it. 'I am sorry, Ethan. I always really liked your mum.'

Against his will, he felt his stance softening slightly towards her, as though she'd spoken some magic words. 'Have you spoken to Dad recently?'

'I told him I was interviewing for a job. I didn't mention you or Cal. I'll call him tonight.'

Ethan nodded. 'And… you're okay? You've got somewhere to stay?'

'Oh, yeah. Nice flat, horrible view.' She flashed him one of her rare smiles and, as ever, he returned it. She'd always had that power, he remembered now, right from when she was a kid. Her smiles had been infectious, and frequent. He wasn't sure when they'd dried up to these brief dazzling moments.

'Okay.' He nodded again. 'If you need anything-'

'Yeah, Cal said, just ask.'

Of course he had. All Ethan could do was nod again and leave his sister to her lunch, grinding his teeth as he headed back to the ward.

* * *

'I think she'd be fun!' Lofty was insisting as Max came into the staffroom.

'Max, tell him he can't invite Doctor Hardy tonight,' Robyn directed her step-brother.

'Which one?'

'Ha ha.'

'I was just saying,' Lofty explained, 'she seems nice. And she's new. She might want to get to know us. What?' he demanded, as the step-siblings shared an eye-roll.

'When have you ever known Ethan to come for a drink?' Max asked his friend.

'She might be different. Cal comes sometimes.' Lofty looked between the two of them again before nodding decisively. 'I'm going to ask her.'

It was like a cheesy film, Max thought, as no sooner had the words left Lofty's lips, but the door opened and the topic of conversation walked in. Her entrance was slightly less dramatic than it had been this morning, scrubs not having quite the same impact as her earlier power-dressing. Even so, her blonde curls and general air of confidence helped to draw all of their eyes towards her.

Max glanced at Lofty. Faced with the reality of Doctor Hardy, he looked far less sure of his decision. The look on his face brought a grin to Max's lips. Raising an eyebrow, he gestured towards her, silently challenging Lofty to follow through. To the nurse's credit, after a brief hesitation, he garnered enough confidence to approach Francesca and, with only the minimum of throat-clearing and anxious hovering, spit out his question.

Max wondered if he'd have noticed what he did next if he hadn't been standing back observing the Lofty-Francesca interaction as though it was a nature documentary. Cynicism meant that he wasn't surprised when she turned down the invitation. What did surprise him was how smoothly it was done.

'I'm sorry, I'm busy tonight. Maybe another time.' She bestowed an admittedly very attractive smile upon Lofty. She had the same straight white teeth and clean-cut looks of her middle brother. There was nothing mean or nasty about the way she spoke; it seemed, to all intents and purposes, that she really was sorry she couldn't join them and really did intend to make the effort another time.

There was something else though, Max mused, the exact details taking a bit longer to sink in. The eyes. There was something about her eyes. The smile didn't make it there, like whatever she was painting on her face didn't match what was going on inside of her head. And the words… they'd come so easily, as though she'd responded on cue with a prepared script. Everything seemed so rehearsed, like she'd done this before. It was as if she was playing the very best Francesca Hardy she knew how to be. That was weird.

'Max?' Robyn gave him a less than gentle shove, suggesting this wasn't the first time she'd called his name. 'You ready?'

He realised he was staring at Francesca's back and it took some effort to tug his eyes away. 'Sure. Let's do this.'

* * *

 _ **Next time: Taking a Chance**_

 _'You said you were on the pill,' the man hissed, half-angry, half-scared. Max could relate; this was the conversation most men dreaded having._

 _'I am! I… I'm not pregnant,' the woman replied. Anna, Max reminded himself of Rita's directions. 'It's just… I don't know.'_

 _'You said it would all be fine!'_

 _'It will be… I….' The woman shrugged, tears already in her eyes. They were pretty common during these arguments too, something else Max could identify with: being in the ED was scary enough without people sniping at you. It was his cue, anyway. A woman crying was always his cue to intervene._

* * *

Chapter title/lyrics from Sting's Brand New Day.


	2. Taking a Chance

**Thanks for the reviews, favourites and follows. I'm posting again to give you a bit more story; it doesn't mean I'll always post so regularly! I do have up to Chapter 19 fully written though, and then an extra 95,000 words following that in varying stages of completeness. I actually wasn't joking when I said this was mammoth.**

* * *

 _What do you say to jumping off the edge? Never knowing if there's solid ground below, or a hand to hold, or hell to pay._

Fran glanced through the notes Rita handed to her as she entered the cubicle. The patient, a woman in her mid-twenties, looked cadaverous, with dark shadows underneath her eyes. The way she was clutching the disposable kidney dish and the unpleasant aroma in the cubicle meant that Rita's quick run-down of her symptoms was largely unnecessary.

'Anna has suffered severe nausea for over a week,' Rita explained. 'Her boyfriend brought her in this morning after she'd fainted for the second time.'

Fran nodded. 'Any pain?'

Anna shook her head. 'No. Just this constant feeling. I haven't been able to keep anything down.'

'Have you eaten anything unusual? Anything undercooked or out of date?' Another shake of the head. 'Do you mind if I examine you?'

'What is it?' The man, presumably the boyfriend, asked. 'Do you know what it is?'

Fran assessed him in under thirty seconds. Young, male, pathologically terrified of hospitals. They were common enough.

'I need to examine Anna first.' She set the notes aside. 'I'm going to press down on your abdomen. Let me know if there's any pain.' Anna nodded, and Fran moved her hands over her stomach. 'Anything?' The reply was to the negative. 'And this has been going on for a week?'

'About that long.' Anna nodded again.

'Have you taken anything for it? Any over the counter medicines?' A shake of the head. 'Okay. Rita, could you send for a full blood count please.' Then, almost as an after-thought, a nagging idea in the back of her mind, 'Is there any chance you could be pregnant?'

'What?' The boyfriend let out a single burst of laughter, and Fran revised her assessment of him: also pathologically terrified of commitment. That hardly set him apart from the herd. 'No!'

'So, you two aren't…?' Fran waved a finger between them, her voice delicately innocent. When no reply came, she nodded. 'Okay, so can we get a pregnancy test as well, please Rita? Just to cover all avenues,' she added as both Anna and her man gave her startled looks. 'In the meantime, we'll get you started on a saline drip. It'll help with the dehydration which is making you so ill.'

Rita nodded. 'I'll be back shortly, Anna, I'll just find a porter to take you to the bathroom.' Fran was surprised when the nurse tailed her out of the cubicle. 'What do you think it is?'

Unused to being asked that quite so directly by a nurse, Fran frowned as she signed off a prescription Lofty pushed underneath her nose. 'I'd like to wait until we get the results of her bloods.'

'But you must have an idea.' Rita pressed her. 'The pregnancy test?'

'Routine in a woman of her age with her symptoms.' Fran looked up from the prescription. 'Could you get those done as soon as possible please?'

There was a moment when Rita sized her up, as though she was about to demand more from the doctor. Then she nodded and turned back to do her job, leaving Fran free to do hers.

* * *

Walking into a domestic was the thing Max liked least about his job. In front of the doctors and most of the nurses, patients and their supposed-loved ones managed to keep it together and behave with some degree of decorum. In front of the porters though, people let themselves go, which was nice in a way; Max liked feeling as though he was approachable and somebody people could talk to. Having to wait patiently through an argument was less desirable. It was always just a matter of time before he had to intervene.

The couple in cubicle four were less dramatic than some Max had seen in his time at the hospital. At least they were only disturbing themselves. And him, obviously. He lingered awkwardly in the open curtain, wondering how soon before he could interrupt.

'You said you were on the pill,' the man hissed, half-angry, half-scared. Max could relate; this was the conversation most men dreaded having.

'I am! I… I'm not pregnant,' the woman replied. Anna, Max reminded himself of Rita's directions. 'It's just… I don't know.'

'You said it would all be fine!'

'It will be… I….' The woman shrugged, tears already in her eyes. They were pretty common during these arguments too, something else Max could identify with: being in the ED was scary enough without people sniping at you. It was his cue, anyway. A woman crying was always his cue to intervene.

'Okay, ready for a ride?' He tried a chipper tone to break the tension, then heard what he'd said and added, 'In the wheelchair. To the bathroom. I'm a porter.' Turning to the man, he clarified, 'We won't be long if you want to stay here.' He knew he hadn't imagined Anna's relieved sigh as she got into the wheelchair.

Max revised his job dissatisfaction list as he waited for Anna. Waiting outside women's toilets was certainly a contender for the worst part of his job. He was pushing the wheelchair back and forth for want of anything useful to do when Anna appeared in the doorway again, her sample in her hand.

'You alright?' he asked, entirely unnecessarily as her pallor was enough of an answer.

'I was sick again.'

Max pushed the wheelchair closer to her and she sat down. 'And here was me going to offer to stand you a coffee and a bacon sandwich. Cure for most evils I find.' He was gratified to see a weak smile even as she looked like she might vomit again. 'When was the last time you had anything to eat?'

'And it stayed down?' Anna shrugged. 'I don't know. I feel like I haven't eaten for days. I hate being ill.'

'Still. At least you're not alone. Your boyfriend,' he added when she gave him a quizzical look. 'It must be nice to have someone looking after you.'

'Rob? He's… he's not my boyfriend. Not really.' She ran a hand over her face. 'We've… we've only been seeing each other a few weeks. It's not serious.'

'He brought you in,' Max reminded her.

'And he'll run a mile if this is positive. If I'm…' Anna ducked her head.

'You don't know that.'

'Wouldn't you?'

The question caught Max unawares and he stumbled over his words. 'I… I don't know… I…'

She rescued him. 'Sorry. I shouldn't have asked that, it was inappropriate. Sorry.' She gave a very bitter little laugh. 'I really hate being ill.'

'Doctor Hardy will have you feeling better soon. She's good.' He meant that. Francesca might have only been on the ward for a few weeks, but she'd made a quiet impact. She'd certainly impressed Connie, and that was no easy feat as Lofty and Robyn would attest to. There was a grace to her as well, which Max had noticed as she'd flitted around the department. It was as though nothing ruffled her, as if everything the ED could throw at her was nothing more than a minor ripple in the smooth waters of her life. She was efficient and thorough and swan-like in everything she did. The face she presented to the world was serenely perfect. That he couldn't help wondering what was happening beneath the surface was neither here nor there.

'She better be,' Anna said a little darkly, before adding, 'She any good at relationship counselling?'

Max laughed. 'That I wouldn't know. Come on, let's head back.'

* * *

'The results are back.'

Fran turned her attention onto Rita. 'And?'

'Bloods are clear.'

'And the pregnancy test?'

'Positive.'

Fran nodded. 'Right. I might have a diagnosis then.' Prompted by Rita's stare she said, 'I think she might have hyperemesis gravidarum.'

She felt Ethan prick up his ears beside her. 'Isn't that quite rare?'

'Under two-percent of women are diagnosed with it,' Fran agreed, enjoying the statistic a little too much. 'But I have seen a case of it before. In Chicago.' Then, aware she was sounding big-headed, yet adamant she was right, she added, 'Even if it's just a stomach bug, with the pregnancy and her dehydration, she'll need admitting. Get onto obs and gynae and see if they've got a bed.' The last she directed towards Rita before moving to check on the patient in cubicle seven.

'And Anna?'

Fran frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'When are you going to tell Anna?' Rita clarified.

'I'll be there soon.'

'I think we should tread carefully. Her boyfriend doesn't seem thrilled about the possibility of her being pregnant.'

Before Fran could respond, that porter Max swept by, leaning over the desk. 'He's not her boyfriend.'

Taken aback, Fran broke her golden rule of not getting involved in the patients' domestic lives by asking, a little irritably, 'What?'

'He's not her boyfriend. As such. They've only been dating a few weeks.'

Fran spent a long moment studying Max, taking in the scruffy hair and the general air of not having enough to do which led him to over-engage with the patients. In the few weeks she'd been here, she'd noticed him slouching around the department, sometimes transferring patients or towels or other supplies, but just as often clutching a coffee and chatting to a patient, both tasks which she was pretty certain weren't in his job specification. Fran liked job specifications; they made everything clear, giving people a list of things which were part of their remit. She wasn't sure when relationship counselling was supposed to have become part of hers.

'This is what I mean,' Rita had been saying in the meantime. 'I think we should be careful how we break the news to them.'

Fran snapped back to reality. 'This isn't our problem. He'll find out sooner or later, and we need to get her transferred to a ward.' When she was met with a wide-eyed silence from both Rita and Max, she looked to Ethan for support. Not for the first time in her life, she was suddenly unsure of herself when it came to her brother, and she threw her shoulders back, remembering how she'd learned to stand on her own two feet all those years ago. She didn't need his backing now. 'Let me know when we've got a bed lined up, and I'll explain it all to her.' And she turned away to cubicle seven, wishing she hadn't momentarily caught Max's eye before she did so. The small smile on his face puzzled her all afternoon.

* * *

'So, Cal. Your sister.'

There was the sort of opener which Cal had always disliked. Fran had been five years below him at school and it was just the sort of joke his friends had employed from almost the moment they'd become aware of his tenuous relation to her. All it had taken was one friend dropping round during his time off school with glandular fever and by the time he went back, 'Knight's sister's a hottie' had become inappropriate legend. That particular phrase had haunted him all the way through the rest of school and college, briefly abating at university until his graduation, when his university mates had discovered the family secret. Even now, whenever they met up, one of them, sooner or later, would enquire after Francesca, accompanied by much back-slapping and jeers. It was information he'd never share with his sister.

He didn't often hear those words from a woman though, so he looked up with interest as Rita broached the subject. Naturally on guard, he said, 'What about her?'

'Is she always this cold?'

Cal bristled. To say it was a surprise he was being asked was untrue. That he was being asked so directly, so soon, by Rita of all people, was the surprise. Loyalty kicking in, he deferred his answer. 'What do you mean?'

Rita let loose a stream of consciousness of exactly how much Fran had annoyed her that day. Cal had been aware of some tension between his sister and Rita, more because of Rita's inability to hide her feelings than because Fran was snapping all over the place. As far as Cal could follow, Fran had done her job, diagnosing and treating a patient entirely professionally before moving on to another one. Her disinterest in connecting with the patient on any other level, whilst a little detached, was nothing he'd be concerned about, especially considering what he knew about his sister. Rita's main gripe seemed to be that a doctor hadn't waded into some domestic dispute.

When the nurse had finally talked herself out, Cal found the defensive words he'd been searching for. 'She's just doing her job.'

'And you'd behave like that, would you?' Rita demanded. 'You'd send some poor woman upstairs all on her own?'

'It's not like Fran could have done much to prevent that.' Cal shrugged. 'If a guy's going to run…' Then, concerned he may have already said too much, he said the one thing which he knew would shut the conversation down. 'If you're that concerned, you could talk to Mrs Beauchamp about it.'

The nurse shot him a filthy look as she finished her cup of coffee and left the staffroom. Cal allowed himself a small smirk, even as he thought about the impact Fran was already having upon the department. She was good at her job, even better than he'd ever thought she would be. If he'd hoped he might be some kind of guru for her, sharing his experiences and wisdom, he was proved foolish on a daily basis. There'd been more than a couple of occasions when she'd helped him work through a particularly tricky diagnosis. He was loathe to use the word 'genius', but when both Fran and Ethan seemed capable of memorising entire encyclopaedias, he wasn't sure what else to call it. Everything seemed to be at her fingertips; nothing seemed to faze her. He was pretty sure Connie Beauchamp was already eyeing her up as lady in-waiting to her empire, leapfrogging her over the mere pawns of her brothers. Cal would have been jealous if he hadn't been so embarrassingly proud.

And worried. He didn't know where that concern stemmed from whenever he thought about his sister. If he was pushed, he might talk about the broken girl who'd come home from boarding school at the end of her first term, seemingly unable to pick herself up and try again. But that was over fifteen years ago, and all she'd proved ever since then was how little she needed anybody, let alone Ethan and Cal, to worry about her. She'd ploughed her way through A Levels and university, graduating in the top five percent of her class, disappearing abroad on an exchange programme Cal had never even heard of. Fran had experience and confidence even he could be envious of.

It was the other stuff that worried him. Sometimes, looking at the way Fran breezed through life so independently, he wondered if he hadn't been too defensive of her when she was younger. Maybe if he'd allowed one or two of his friends to approach her and play with her, bruise her heart a little, she might be just a bit… _nicer_. He took that back as soon as the thought popped into his head, because Fran _was_ nice, she was gorgeous. She had the strangest sense of humour he'd ever come across and when it was just her and the family, she was fine. It was everybody else she had a problem with, something Holby City ED seemed to be fast learning. Irritating Rita was nothing, and he knew for a fact that Fran wouldn't be overtly rude. It was what she did without being aware of it which concerned him. She did her job fantastically; if Cal was ill, he'd want Fran in his corner. He just wasn't sure he'd want her to be the one breaking any bad news to him.

Maybe it was time they had a chat.

* * *

Max regretted walking into the staffroom. He'd heard Rita rehash this story three times today already and he didn't think it was a cathartic process for the nurse. She was as het up now as she had been when he'd witnessed the first rumblings of trouble between her and Doctor Hardy. To make matters worse, both Lofty and Robyn were listening, rapt, to The Tale of the Heartless Doctor, which was a lousy title for a story.

Max was heartened to hear Lofty's response. 'She's very efficient.'

' _Too_ efficient,' Rita stressed. 'It's like she sees the patients as numbers, some sort of puzzle to be solved.' Truthfully, Max liked that description of medicine; it made it sound less like a sad necessity of life and more like a Hollywood film.

'As if we needed another Dr Chao,' Robyn grumbled. Max recognised that particular tone; she was settling in to a good, old-fashioned, nurses versus doctors moan. Time for his grand entrance.

'Who's for a drink?'

'Me.' Lofty shot his friend a grateful look.

'That's really kind of you, Lofty, thanks.' Max flashed him a wicked grin as the penny dropped. 'Mine's a pint. Robyn?'

'I'll get my bag.'

'Did somebody say pint?' With his ever-excellent timing, Charlie came into the staffroom.

'Lofty's buying,' Robyn informed him.

'Hey!'

Max considered it a job well done: from bitching to banter in under one minute. Even by his standards, it was a miraculous transformation. As they headed for the door, he congratulated himself on his skills set.

Then they came to a dramatic halt as they almost collided with Francesca, hotly pursued by Cal. Faced with the source of their irritations, Max was amused to see both Robyn and Rita momentarily stunned.

The same could not be said of Lofty.

'Francesca. We're… going for a drink… do you want to…?' He tailed off as he caught the looks the women were shooting at him, not to mention felt the dig in the ribs from Robyn. Subtlety was not her strong point. Max closed his eyes in embarrassment, unable to look at Francesca. She couldn't have failed to notice how much Robyn and Rita didn't want her be there.

'I'm sorry, I'm busy tonight. Maybe another time.'

Naturally. If Max had been feeling cruel, he might have spoken her words along with her; he'd make an excellent prompt for The Life of Francesca Hardy (which was a far far better title for a story). In the weeks she'd been here, barely a shift had gone by without Lofty extending an invitation to her, from casual pub evenings to the bingo, and a party which Max wasn't sure _they_ were even invited to, let alone half the ED. Each and every invitation had been met with the same flawlessly simple reply, uttered all but genuinely. That Lofty was still trying was reason enough for Max to call him his best mate.

Undaunted, Lofty said, 'Cal?'

'I'll give it a miss too.'

The nurse nodded. 'Okay. Well, have a good night.'

'Thank God for that!' Robyn said far too loudly when they were certainly still within earshot. 'What was that about?'

Lofty shrugged. 'I thought she might like to come. You might have her all wrong, you know.'

'I don't think so. Anyone would think you fancied her.' Robyn's eyes widened as Lofty made the fatal error of not instantly denying it. 'Oh my God, you do, don't you?'

'No!' Too late and far too emphatic. He was sunk. Max wasn't sure if Robyn thinking their flatmate was gay was worse or better than her believing he was smitten with her newest arch nemesis. He had a feeling she'd be more vocal about this than she had been about the gay thing.

'You fancy Francesca Hardy!' Robyn cackled as they left the department.

Charlie gave a sigh. 'This pint better be worth it, Lofty.'

* * *

Fran pulled the elastic band out of her hair and shook it loose, pulling a face at herself in the mirror on the inside of her locker. She'd need her roots doing again soon, something which came around with alarming regularity. It always felt as though she'd barely left the salon before the dishwater blonde roots were showing through. How Ethan had held onto his blond hair when he didn't even care about it, and she had to spend the best part of a hundred pounds every few weeks was beyond her. It was surely proof positive that, if there was a God, he was having a jolly good laugh.

She flipped her hair upside down, hoping volume would disguise the thick line down the middle of head. When she righted herself again, Cal was still staring at her.

'What?'

'What?' He frowned.

'What's wrong?'

'Why would something be wrong?'

'You're staring at me.'

'I'm _looking_ at you.'

'For five minutes?' Fran raised her eyebrows triumphantly. Cal dropped his gaze and she was able to continue rifling through her locker getting her things together for the drive home. It had been a long day, not made any shorter by Rita's desire to take part in Dear Deidre part way through it. Fran was thinking about a warm bath and clean sheets.

'You should have gone for a drink with the others.'

She frowned. 'Why?'

Cal shrugged. 'You might have enjoyed it.' She gave him a doubtful look. 'You might!'

'If you thought it was going to be so _fun_ , how come you haven't gone?'

'I do go. Sometimes.'

'When?'

'I don't have to check my social plans with you before they happen!'

'But I do?' She experienced a small moment of satisfaction at silencing Cal, before another stab of that distaste with herself from earlier. She moodily pushed things around in her locker for a few seconds, before shutting the door. 'It's not like they want me with them, anyway.'

'They keep inviting you.'

' _Lofty_ keeps on inviting me,' she corrected him. 'And I'd rather not be the charity case of a man named after the top floor of a building.'

There was the briefest pause before Cal broke out into laughter. Fran bit her lip hard to stifle the smile which soon took over her face. Shameful as it was to admit it, being bitchy was always what had brought the two of them together. Granted, it was usually about Ethan, and Cal always took those conversations way too far, but it was what had kept them entertained throughout their adolescence and showed no signs of abating now. She supposed it was a family tradition of sorts, and as their family was lacking on being traditional let alone having traditions, she'd take what she could get.

'What are you doing for dinner?' Cal asked eventually.

She gave him a sceptical look. 'Please don't say you're offering to cook.'

He rolled his eyes. 'I have learned to cook in the last ten years, you know. But, if it bothers you that much… Chinese?'

It was the cruellest of cruel tricks: Fran had always craved Chinese food. If Cal was hoping to tempt her away from her cocoon at home, he was going about it the right way. She eyed her brother up suspiciously, still wondering why he'd been hanging about tonight. Cal didn't do loitering, unless it involved chatting up a beautiful woman. Life, he always claimed, was too short to be doing nothing, and waiting around for his kid sister was possibly the biggest sort of nothing he'd be able to think of. There was a hidden agenda here somewhere. Fran didn't like hidden agendas.

What she did like was being on the front-foot, going on the offensive. 'One condition. We don't talk about work.' She didn't know if she imagined the flickering moment of indecision before he nodded his agreement. 'And you're buying.'

'That's two conditions.'

'You're the one who suggested it.' She picked up her bag. 'I'm hungry.'

* * *

 ** _Next time: One Night Only_**

 _'Why?'_

 _'Because,' Max shrugged again, 'I'm a needy pathetic person who needs human company to feel a sense of validation about his life and you've drawn the short straw this evening.'_

 _Fran laughed. She couldn't help it: it just left her mouth without her permission, which it never ever did._

 _'It's true! We have a rota and, technically, it's Rita's turn tonight, but she has to watch paint dry, so she's tied up, and Lofty has enough problems in life with that hair without having to mind me for more than one day a month and-'_

 _'Okay! Okay, you… win.' She cut across him, the muscles in her stomach already protesting. They'd not been put to such use in a long time. 'One drink?'_

 _'One drink.' He nodded and offered his hand for her to shake. 'Scout's honour.'_

 _She shook his hand, wondering why a joke felt like a very real pact._

* * *

Chapter title/lyrics from 'Taking a Chance' by Cher


	3. One Night Only

_In the morning, this feeling will be gone. It has no chance going on._

Having spent so much of their adolescence apart, Ethan knew that he and Fran didn't have the closest of sibling relationships. They hadn't had a shared loathing of particular teachers, hadn't spent weekends arguing over the remote control. From the age of eleven, he'd spent whole terms at the exclusive boarding school their father had picked out for his children and, apart from the brief disastrous time Fran had spent there, they'd only spent holidays together ever since. It hadn't made for the most normal relationship in the world; sometimes they sounded more like acquaintances than flesh and blood.

In contrast, Cal and Fran seemed to have the mildly antagonistic relationship which Ethan had witnessed in other families. Living within a ten mile radius of each other for more than a decade had cemented them into a weird almost-family which left him on the outside. He had a horrible suspicion that, if she was ever asked to pick a favourite brother, Cal would win by more than a nose.

Maybe that wasn't all bad though, he mused, as he skim-read a set of results that had just come back down from microbiology. Cal's status as Best Big Brother all too often went to his head, and Ethan had no real proof beyond Cal's irritability, but he suspected that Fran's seeming infallibility on the ward was more than a bit denting to Dr Knight's ego. More than once, Fran had calmly, quietly suggested something to Cal which, unsurprisingly, had been spot on. It was testament to Cal's fondness for his sister that he hadn't been more annoyed by it.

In contrast, Ethan found his sister's brain fascinating. She had the same love of figures and rules and logic that he did, with an extra spark of something. Intuition, he supposed; perhaps that was the sort of thing they'd taught at Fran and Cal's school. Whatever it was, it was an asset to Holby ED, and something Ethan was taking advantage of on a daily basis.

'Take a look,' he said now, dangling the results in front of her face, 'at these.'

Fran's eyes darted over the results before fixing on one point. 'Interesting. Those are insanely high levels of iron.'

'I know.'

'Is that even possible?' She took hold of the results and skimmed through them again. 'How did this happen? How has he not known?'

'He's been brought in today after a diabetic collapse. He's never had one before.'

'Diabetes caused by the high iron levels, I suppose.' Fran nodded slowly. 'I've seen haemochromatosis before, but nothing like this. Have you phoned haematology?'

'There's a consultant coming down as soon as they can spare him. I thought you might be interested.'

'I am, it's…' Fran ran out of words. 'What are you going to tell him?'

And that was the sticking point, and the moment at which Ethan wondered if he'd approached the right sibling for advice. Of course Fran had known what was ailing his patient, even trotting out the medical term for it. It would probably have been quicker to go to her in the first place rather than using the hospital's online encyclopaedia for clarification: she was basically a walking talking copy of _Gray's Anatomy_. Ethan had merely shown her the results because he knew she'd be interested, and he hadn't been disappointed there. It was the next step which he needed the help with, and that didn't seem to be Fran's area of expertise.

'I don't know. It's rather a lot for him to take in.' He paused, wondering if his sister would step in, full of ideas and thoughts.

Handing back the results, she nodded. 'Yes. Good luck with it.' And then she'd gone. If Ethan hadn't known better, he might have thought he was being given the brush off by his own sister. Instead, he recognised the reaction for what it really was: flight in the face of danger.

Reluctantly, he looked at the results again, no longer seeing a fascinating medical case, but instead a headache. Mr Chessler had come in with a suspected case of Type 2 diabetes, and he was going to leave the hospital with a hereditary disease with the potential to one day kill him. It was going to mean a whole new way of living. Ethan wasn't sure where to begin with this one.

'Need a hand, little brother?' Like the proverbial bad penny, Cal appeared just when Ethan least wanted to see him. The frown between his eyes must have been obvious as he puzzled over the problem at hand, and Cal had swooped, going for his Achille's heel.

It would be so easy to brush his brother off. Ethan would figure it out sooner or later, and the consultant would be here soon anyway. Cal didn't need to get involved.

Sighing, his conscience getting the better of him, he prepared to share the whole story with him.

* * *

Routines were important, not least in a department as busy and unpredictable as the ED. Having handed over her patients, changed out of her scrubs, rejected Lofty's inevitable invitation and shaken her hair out, Fran could already feel some of the tension and stresses of the day disappearing. Next on the agenda was getting into her car, turning up the music and driving home to a glass of wine, a warm bath and a good book. Simple pleasures.

Then she closed her locker door and came face to face with Max Walker.

Momentarily disarmed, it took her several seconds to respond. She didn't know why, but Max seemed to have this effect upon her, and, what was worse, he seemed to know it. Even now, he was gazing steadily at her, that infuriatingly eternal smile on his lips. She wondered if he ever found anything to frown at. The way he was constantly almost-grinning gave him a simple air, as if he had several neurones which weren't connected up properly. In her opinion, there was plenty not to be smiling about in an ED, something he really ought to be told.

And then she realised she'd been staring at him for several seconds more than was strictly required.

'Can I help you?' The voice was calm, possibly even a little chilly. Forcing a smile, she tried to inject some of the polite detachment she treated Lofty to after-hours. 'I thought you'd be at the pub with the others?'

It wasn't lost on her that Max didn't answer her question. 'Are you coming?' His brown eyes sparkled, as if he already knew the answer and was simply waiting for her to close the circle, so to speak. So familiar was her response that she barely had time to notice how nice his eyes were and how they reminded her of something she couldn't put her finger on.

'I'm sorry, I'm busy tonight. Maybe another time.' Maybe Max liked a routine as much as she did and he needed to hear her declining the invitation. It could be the only reason why Lofty kept on asking her to join their social ventures. Her lines complete, she turned to go.

'Busy doing what?'

She knew her surprise was painted across her features as she turned to look at him again. His face was unreadable, unmoved by the short exchange between them. He leaned against the lockers like he had always been there, entirely at ease, whilst her mind clicked into overdrive as she struggled to understand what her next line was meant to be. She'd never got this far in the script before, and she didn't like going off-book.

Giving a small toss of the head, as if that would startle her brain into action, she found that thinking of the words and being polite was beyond her. 'Is that any of your business?' Max's raised eyebrows were the only testament to how rude she was being; indeed, he seemed more amused by it than anything. After a second toss of her head, she said, in what she hoped was a more reasonable voice, 'I'm training for a marathon.' Strictly true, although she'd had no intention of training for it this evening: for one thing, it was already dark outside. For another, it had been raining all day. She hoped Max wouldn't mention that.

'In the dark? And the rain?'

Screw him. 'I'm not asking you to come.'

'Good, I wouldn't!' He flashed her that smile again. 'So… how about a drink then?'

Out of everything he'd said, that was definitely the oddest. 'I told you, I'm-'

'Busy, I know, I heard.' Max nodded as he walked towards her, and she was suddenly struck by how much taller than her he was. 'But I'm giving you the chance to change your mind.'

Despite herself, she couldn't help curiosity creeping out, which was weird, because she was never curious about people. 'What makes you think I'd change my mind?'

'Woman's prerogative, isn't it?' He shrugged, and then grinned again. 'Go on. One drink.'

A Labrador. It came to her suddenly as she looked into his eyes again. They looked like her aunt's dog's eyes from when she was five. She hadn't thought about that animal in years, the way his eyes had lit up when anything resembling the word 'walk' came out of your mouth, the way he'd blinked sleepily at the end of a long day, eyes fixed firmly on his owner. Now suddenly she was reminded, and the ridiculousness of it made her bold.

'Why?'

'Because,' Max shrugged again, 'I'm a needy pathetic person who needs human company to feel a sense of validation about his life and you've drawn the short straw this evening.'

She laughed. She couldn't help it: it just left her mouth without her permission, which it never ever did.

'It's true! We have a rota and, technically, it's Rita's turn tonight, but she has to watch paint dry, so she's tied up, and Lofty has enough problems in life with that hair without having to mind me for more than one day a month and-'

'Okay! Okay, you… win.' She cut across him, the muscles in her stomach already protesting. They'd not been put to such use in a long time. 'One drink?'

'One drink.' He nodded and offered his hand for her to shake. 'Scout's honour.'

She shook his hand, wondering why a joke felt like a very real pact.

* * *

It was only as he was paying for the drinks at the bar (a pint for him, a predictable gin and tonic for her) that Max let his brain catch up with his tongue and tried to understand how he'd ended up in this situation. Robyn had always said his mouth would get him into trouble one day; maybe today was the day.

He glanced over his shoulder at where Francesca was perched in a booth, looking aimlessly around the room, her face registering pure boredom. That was hardly flattering, and he frantically tried to remember why inviting her out had seemed like a good idea. The only thing outweighing his surprise that he'd asked her along was that she'd agreed; much as he'd persisted, he'd half-expected to be leaving the hospital alone and joining the others at the pub. Instead, here they were at a new bar down the road from the hospital and he was footing the drinks bill. It rather begged the question why he had been so bothered by her declining Lofty's invitations.

Carrying the drinks back to her, he put it down to two simple things. Firstly, he didn't like to think of anybody being left out. Whenever people talked about job satisfaction, he thought about the people he met every day at work, including the staff. He'd worked in offices and shops and he had always believed that the people around you were more important than the job itself. Nowhere had this been proved truer than Holby City ED. It was the staff more than anything which led him to feeling strangely contented in a job he'd only taken because he couldn't stand Robyn's moaning any longer. The idea that Francesca might miss out on the camaraderie and support of the team was something he couldn't be comfortable with.

And besides that, she was hot, and whilst Max usually tried not to be completely shallow, having a smoking blonde on his arm for one night might be just the push he needed to put Zoe Hanna well and truly into the past.

It immediately became clear that that was not going to be easy. As he returned to the table, Francesca barely gave a flicker of a smile as she thanked him for the drink before falling back into surly silence. Zoe would have had some quip, some interesting anecdote to share from the day, even a comment on his ironically worn 'Choose Life' t-shirt. With Zoe, this silence wouldn't have lasted five seconds, let alone the minute which was ticking away on his wrist.

Desperately clutching at something to jerk the conversation into action, he went with, 'So. Running a marathon.'

She raised her eyebrows, as if she couldn't make-out what he was asking her, if he was indeed asking her anything. It reminded Max of a teacher he'd once had who'd followed up questions like 'Can I go to the toilet?' with 'I don't know, can you?' before refusing permission anyway. Still, at least that frustrating training was finally coming in useful, he thought, rephrasing his comment.

'How many marathons have you run before?'

'I haven't.'

'This is your first one?'

'Yes.'

'Oh. When is it?'

She scrutinised his face, as if she was deciding how worthy he was to be trusted with this information. An entirely ridiculous inference, Max decided, because this was idle pointless chit-chat, not the kind of heart-to-heart you needed people's trust for. Maybe she always looked like that in this light.

Finally, she said, 'May.'

'Not the London Marathon is it?' he asked cheerily, half-serious, half filling the silence.

'No.' Then, as if even she thought her answer was too abrupt, she added, 'It's in Liverpool. It's easier to enter than the London Marathon.'

He nodded as if he understood what she was saying. 'How long have you been running for?'

'A few years.' Vague and non-committal.

'And you… enjoy it?' He knew that was a ridiculous question, but he wasn't sure whether that was because she surely wouldn't do it if she didn't enjoy it, or that the idea of Francesca Hardy enjoying _anything_ seemed so far-fetched.

Sure enough, her response wasn't enlightening. 'It's running.'

Max took a long gulp of his pint, seeing this turning into a painful evening and wishing he'd followed Lofty and Robyn out of the hospital earlier.

'It's easy, isn't it? Running.'

He spluttered his drink out, not sure of he was more shocked by what she'd said or the fact she'd said it. 'Is it?'

'I think so.' For the second time that evening, he saw a flash of curiosity pass across her face, and it did something to her, made her come alive for the briefest of moments. 'Don't you?'

'I only run when I've missed the bus. Or last orders.'

'It's a really good way of keeping fit.'

'Is that Francesca talking or Doctor Hardy?'

'I like to practise what I preach.'

Max decided not to mention his smoking; he had a feeling Francesca was one of those people who liked to trot out statistics and case studies in order to prove a point. He wondered if he could have found somebody less like Zoe to spend an evening with.

Choosing to avoid an argument, he said, 'What is it you like about running?' He'd begun the question as a way of preventing that awkward silence again. He was surprised to find he wanted to know the answer.

He was probably more surprised that she actually answered, though. 'I don't know. I suppose…' She hesitated, looking at him as if waiting for him to jump in and halt her. When he didn't, she continued. 'I suppose I like that you can do it whenever and wherever you are. You're not reliant upon anything or… anyone.'

Max frowned. 'You generally find people unreliable?'

For one moment, she seemed about to answer him, and he was struck by how different she looked in that moment. Lofty had been right on her first morning in the department: she was hot. A lot of the time, though, she wasn't especially _nice._ For one short moment, she seemed nice.

Then, with a shake of her head, she picked up her drink. 'So what do you do to keep fit?'

He didn't miss a beat in keeping up with her, even as the image of the softer, more insecure Francesca remained seared onto his memory. 'I don't think I need much help in that department.' He slapped his stomach proudly, his job giving him just enough exercise to keep off the quarter-life spread.

'Well, the smoking probably doesn't help.'

She'd noticed. He wasn't sure whether to feel cowed or buoyed up by that, because she didn't strike him as a person who noticed much about her colleagues. 'Self-absorbed' would be a cruel way of putting it, so he decided upon 'introverted' instead.

'You do know you'll likely die thirteen-point-two years earlier if you smoke than if you don't?'

'Does that include if I get run over by a bus?'

'Ninety per cent of lung cancer deaths in the US are attributed to smoking.'

'But we're in England,' he countered, to no avail.

'One in six cases of heart disease is caused by smoking.'

'Okay, I get it,' he tried. These were all facts he was well-aware of, in an abstract sense if not attached to specific figures. Working in a hospital, he was unable to avoid the posters and leaflets aimed to scare people into quitting. Even when he got home, Robyn wasn't averse to leaving one or two lying around, a not-so-subtle hint that she found his habit revolting. The emails he received from his brother were the icing on a very stale cake; Simon liked to include links to images of blackened lungs and corrupted hearts, as if this would make Max immediately drop the cigarettes. As yet, it hadn't worked, and he doubted that Francesca's litany of perils would make much difference.

Anyway, that wasn't why he'd invited her along tonight; of that, he was certain, even if he still wasn't sure why he had. If he'd wanted this list of facts and statistics, he'd have stayed in and played on Google.

Francesca however didn't seem to be getting the hint. She reeled the facts off as though it were a mantra; maybe that was what took everybody so long to learn at medical school. 'One in five cases of rheumatoid arthritis are thought to be linked to smoking.'

'Okay!'

'And it can make you impotent.'

'What?'

And then she laughed. It was small and he almost missed it, but there it was. The tiniest giggle. 'Sorry, I… I don't know where that came from.'

'Impotent?'

'It means-'

'Yeah, I know what it means!' He interrupted her, before bursting into laughter himself. 'I just didn't expect to be talking about it this evening.'

'Sorry.' She did look sorry, even as a small smile played on her lips. 'If it's any consolation, studies suggest women who smoke experience the menopause almost two years earlier than non-smokers.'

'It's really not.' He shook his head slowly, not once taking his eyes off of her face. This conversation was _bizarre_ , but he was enjoying it and he didn't know why. Maybe it was because it was the first time he'd seen Francesca relax in the whole time she'd been working in the ED. That was something else which made her seem nicer.

'I just don't understand why people still smoke, even though we know all of this about it.'

'It's a bad habit. Everyone has them. What's yours?' It was with a start that Max suddenly realised he'd crossed over an invisible line, from friendly banter to actual flirting. He hadn't known it was so easy to do that; no wonder people found themselves unexpectedly having affairs.

Again, that moment of indecision before she spoke. It was flattering, Max supposed, that she weighed her words so carefully before she spoke, as though she shared with you exactly as much as she felt you deserved. Or something. This lager might be stronger than he'd first thought, or his rushed lunch wasn't providing much of a sponge to soak it up. He should probably switch to Coke after this.

'I'm a bit of a neat-freak.'

'That's not a bad habit!'

'It's time-consuming.'

'That's like saying your greatest weakness is that you're a perfectionist!' He shook his head. 'Bad habits are… biting your nails or picking your nose or…' He searched his mind for the limit, something which would speak to Francesca, whose perfect manicure suggested she was immune from at least one of his suggestions so far. '… Licking scissors.'

'I'm sorry?'

'My brother was really weird as a kid. Seriously. _Weird_.'

Again with the smile. Her surprisingly dark eyes became ever so slightly brighter, like they were being lit up with her genuine pleasure in what she was saying. A million miles away from the polite smile she'd been treating Lofty to for the past month.

'So you're basically saying bad habits have to be disgusting?'

'No, but it helps.' He leaned forward over the table. 'So go on. One bad habit.'

Narrowing her eyes slightly, he surprised her by leaning forwards as well, resting her elbows on the table and saying, in a small intimate voice, 'Sometimes I leave the sheets on my bed for more than a week at a time. Disgusting enough?'

'Repulsive.' He grinned. It had been well-played. The fact he didn't recognise much about this Francesca Hardy in comparison with the one he saw every day at work was neither here nor there; he liked this one.

Draining his pint, he said, 'Are we having the same again?'

The shutters came down as quickly as they'd lifted. 'I thought this was one drink?'

And he'd given her his Scout's Honour. Of course, he hadn't actually been _in_ the Scouts, but he felt to introduce that now would be dishonest and mean; he had shaken on it after all. At the time, he'd thought one drink would be enough. Now, he knew definitely that it wouldn't be.

Time to think fast.

'Well, yes. But seeing as I bought the last round, it would only be polite to return the favour, right?'

He wasn't sure what her reaction would be. For one moment, she looked very much like she was likely to hit him. Then, she smiled again.

'You think you're smart, don't you?'

Grinning, he nodded. 'Mine's a pint.'

* * *

That night would come back to Fran in bits and pieces. It took over a year before she was fully sure of even all the bits she had access to, and there would always be parts which remained locked away somewhere she would never reach them. She thought that was a good thing given how embarrassing some of the things she did remember were; her subconscious had likely locked them away for a very good reason.

Anyway, it had left her with a string of memories which were cringe-worthy enough in their own right.

Somewhere between the second and third drinks, she'd let Max try on her glasses.

'Jesus, you're practically blind!'

'It's mild to severe myopia!' She thought she rolled her eyes, but she could have been wrong; she didn't normally drink this much. 'Entirely correctable with appropriate lenses.'

'Thank God for that! I don't think you'd look good with a dog.' He handed the glasses back. 'And you'd miss out on sights like this.' He half-grinned, half-gurned at her.

The memory died about then, only resurfacing as she was swallowing something which tasted like toothpaste and burned like ice down her throat.

'I do not look like that!' she protested as Max mimicked what he was referring to as her 'shot-face'.

'I thought you were going to be sick!'

'You're hardly an oil-painting!'

'I've always found watercolours more flattering anyway.' It was a left-field comment which was nowhere near as funny as they both found it, laughing their way through their next shot of spearmint hideousness.

The memories got shorter and more fragmented as the evening (and the drinking) progressed. They'd moved on at some point, or the bar they were in had switched to playing music with a painfully reverberating bass line. Never one for dancing, she had a fleeting recollection of spinning around so fast that she thought she might be sick, before she tripped over and had to be scooped up off of the floor by (she assumed, but wasn't entirely certain) Max.

She remembered him virtually force-feeding her what looked much like offcuts of suspect meat mixed in with frozen vegetables: 'You must have had a kebab before! This is insane!'

Then the last thing she remembered until the next morning was his key getting stuck in the lock as he lost focus whilst kissing her.

Coming to with a bang, Fran kept her eyes firmly closed against the onset of the day and tried to run through what she knew to be true. She was lying down. This was a positive if the vague cloud around her brain was anything to go by. The dry sandpapery nature of her mouth suggested she'd slept with it open; the damp patch underneath her cheek suggested it hadn't always been as dry as it was now. Swallowing was a problem, but nothing, she suspected, that a large glass of water wouldn't cure. Given the blank which faced her when she thought back over last night, she could be feeling worse.

She opened her eyes.

Max looked younger when he was sleeping. There was something charming about the careless way he slept, as though nothing more was going on in his head than you might expect from the average child. Fran had, naturally, never watched herself sleep, but she had a suspicion she looked more stressed even when unconscious.

It was testament to how much she'd drunk that she'd had all of these thoughts before she really processed the fact that she was in bed, naked, with Max Walker.

One of the basic pieces of advice Fran tried to remember whenever something went wrong at work was not to panic. She wasn't sure it was something she'd been specifically taught at university, or even whether anybody had ever said it to her in so many words. What she did know was that the doctors she admired the most, in every were the ones who were patient, calm and had the ability to think quickly in a crisis. That was what made a great doctor. She wasn't deluded; she knew she wasn't there yet. Each time she remembered not to panic, though, she felt herself getting ever so slightly closer to that goal.

So now she tried to remember that advice. This was not a disaster. It wasn't life-threatening or career-threatening or sanity-threatening. It was embarrassing and the next ten minutes or so would be difficult, but it was entirely saveable. She just had to keep her head.

One bonus was that Max was still sound asleep. Loudly so, as well. Fran's experience of spending a night with a man was limited, concerning precisely two others before now. That made her judgment meaningless, but she'd never come across anybody who snored quite so loudly. It could be related to the amount of alcohol he'd consumed (presuming that her state of disorientation today was the result of a shared overindulgence last night) and his smoking habit. Whatever caused it, Fran wondered that he didn't wake himself up.

Still, asleep was good. Asleep meant that she could, if she was careful, extricate herself from the situation smoothly and surely, leaving before he even realised there was anybody to leave. If she was lucky, his memory might be as hazy as hers was and he might, just might, forget he'd ever brought anybody home. Fran would accept the disrespect that implied if it meant she could keep this episode safely hidden away from everybody.

Gingerly sitting up, she assessed the damage to herself. Her stomach lurched once but then settled itself, as if it had merely wanted to startle her for a second before complying with her wishes. Nothing hurt as such, there was just a general background ache in every muscle, bone and sinew. She could work on that later. Right now, she needed to prioritise, the second basic rule she'd learnt from being a doctor. You didn't deal with the broken leg if the patient was about to die from a punctured lung. Likewise, the most important thing right now was to locate her glasses, as everything else was going to be much more difficult if she didn't. At home, she left her glasses neatly on her bedside table where she'd be able to find them by feel alone. She suspected she hadn't been logical last night, and the fuzzy image she was able to see of Max's bedside table suggested there wouldn't have been much room for them anyway. She didn't really want to think about exactly what was in the coffee cup inches away from her head.

Max snored on as she slowly, painstakingly felt underneath the covers for her glasses. Despite herself, she could feel the beginnings of panic taking hold in her chest before she finally grasped them, miraculously unscratched or bent. Having put them on, she wished she hadn't. Max's room, untidy enough without glasses, looked like the images you saw in tabloid newspapers about neglected children. Everywhere she looked there were clothes and magazines and plates and left-over pizza boxes. She hadn't known people, adult people, lived like this. It was all she could do not to gag, and that was only because she was concerned she might not be able to stop.

Taking a deep breath, she considered her next move. A brief hiatus in Max's snoring made her tense up, freezing before he resumed the bed-rattling noise. Clothes. She needed to find her clothes. Then her shoes and her bag. Once she'd done that, all she had to do was get out of this house, work out where she was and get home. Already she was grateful she had the day off of work; dealing with a shift as well as all of this would be beyond even her capabilities.

She eased herself out of the bed, keeping a watchful eye and ear upon Max. He was one of the soundest sleepers she'd ever come across; she could have hit him for that. A full night's sleep was something she couldn't remember ever getting. Apart from last night, of course, and that wasn't a solution to the problem.

Once on the floor, she scouted around in the half-light of a September morning. His aversion to housework was likely just an oversight, but right now it seemed like a personal attack upon her, hindering her ability to find what she was looking for. It was with some relief that her eyes finally alighted on her underwear, an alarmingly long way away from the bed. Prioritising getting dressed over feeling mortified, she hastily found both her top and skirt as well, leaving only her shoes and bag to hunt for. Her feet weren't much looking forward to that if she was honest; she usually preferred to sit in high heels rather than whatever it was she and Max had done last night.

One shoe was in a prominent position by the door. The other had somehow burrowed itself underneath a myriad collection of clothes that she didn't even want to know whether they were clean or dirty. This whole hideous experience was almost over and she'd survived with the minimum of public embarrassment. The private indignity she could bury away somewhere between losing her virginity and throwing up during the first lecture she'd ever had on dialysis. Nobody else needed to know.

Her bag finally made itself known and she stooped down to pick it up.

'You're not even going to say goodbye?'

She hadn't noticed that his snoring had stopped. She'd been so busy telling herself not to panic and to prioritise that she'd forgotten rule three: be alert.

Turning quickly, she found herself looking at a semi-naked Max. Well, likely a completely naked Max, she reasoned, her mind wandering again; a duvet didn't really count as clothing after all. A sudden flashback from last night, the first of many she'd have over the next year, brought up an image of a confidently grinning Max: _I don't think I need much help in that department_.

It wasn't embarrassment which made her flush red.

His question unanswered, Max's smile was less confident and more rueful. 'I'll take the silence as a no.' Raising his eyebrows, he added, 'I can't even interest you in a coffee?'

'I have to go.' She had no plans for the day. No work or vital hobbies. There was nobody waiting for her at home. She hoped he wouldn't call her out on this as he had yesterday.

'To do what?'

She silently swore at him as she had to say, 'Training. My… running.' She didn't tell lies, couldn't stand the taste of them in her mouth. She'd have to do it now, and she hated him for that, as well as the sleeping.

'Oh. Right.' He nodded slowly. 'You've… found everything?'

'Yes.' Then, aware how abrupt she sounded, she added, 'Thanks.'

'For what?'

'Just…' She gestured vaguely. 'It was…' She had no idea how that sentence ended, so she stopped herself. 'I have to go.'

'Bye.'

'Bye.'

Heels clattering down the stairs, she did her best to make a hasty get-away. She got so close.

'Where did you get to last night? We waited for you. Lofty reckoned you were on a date, but who'd be stupid enough to-'

Fran wasn't sure who was more alarmed, her or Robyn, who was standing in the hallway, a cup of what looked like milk in her hand, wearing faded pyjamas, yet looking much fresher than Fran currently felt. She supposed she had the advantage, at least having known Robyn lived here.

For a long moment, they stared at each other. A small snort of laughter came from the top of the stairs. Both Fran and Robyn glanced up to see Max, leaning over the railing, thankfully dressed in some shorts and a t-shirt that Fran recognised from his bedroom floor. He was laughing. At her.

Fran bolted for the door, only pausing for breath when she was a good distance away from the house. Pulling her phone out of her bag, she scrolled through looking for a taxi number. She could at least make this walk of shame in some form of comfort.

* * *

'Max!'

Amusement quickly turned to alarm as Robyn focused her attentions upon him. It always amazed Max how quickly she could move when she wanted to; it rather belied her insistence that exercise was something other people did. If there was the promise of gossip at the end of a race, he'd put his money on her every time.

Now, he moved ever so slightly too slowly, and she'd got her foot inside his door before he could close it. Alcohol weakened, he backed off, leaving her to throw the door backwards properly and enter his room. He figured he may as well have this conversation sitting down.

'You need to start explaining.' Robyn folded her arms, and Max was struck by how mad she looked. He hadn't expected that.

'Explaining what?' he ventured, wondering if he'd mislaid his brain somewhere and got hold of entirely the wrong end of the stick. Maybe he'd done something _really_ stupid in the past twenty-four hours and Robyn had just found out. It seemed a delightful coincidence, but Max liked those.

'Why I've just had to face Francesca bloody Hardy in my pyjamas!'

Max glanced down at the faded Tinkerbell pyjamas his step-sister was sporting. 'I think they're a good look.'

'Max!'

He winced; Robyn's bark was infinitely worse than her bite but that wasn't helping his head right now. Dropping it into his hands, he said, 'What do you want to know?'

'Everything!'

'Really?' he said, doubtfully. 'You mean…' He tailed off, gesturing in a general way towards the rumpled sheets.

'Oh my God, you are annoying!' Robyn gave him a fierce slap on the arm, which he cringed away from. 'And pathetic! Will you just give me a straight answer?'

'If I knew what the question was, I'd try,' he moaned, moving away from her.

'I want to know what the hell you think you're doing!'

'What are you shouting about?' Lofty appeared in the doorway, hair even wilder than usual, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a pair of tracksuit trousers that had seen better days. He blinked at the scene in front of him. 'Isn't it a bit early for this, kids?'

Robyn ignored him. 'I'm still waiting for an answer, Max.'

'Who died and made you mum?'

'You want to bring your mum into this? You want me to call your mum and get her involved?'

'Is this not a bit ridiculous?' Lofty asked.

'And what are you going to tell her? "Max brought a girl home"?'

'How about "Max brought a stuck-up cow of a doctor home"?'

'Wait, hold up.' Lofty stepped more fully into the room, frowning. 'Who?'

'Francesca,' Max said as Robyn said, 'Doctor Hardy.'

Lofty's frown deepened. 'You and… her? For real? Good on you, mate.'

Max was unable to prevent a grin spreading across his face, something Robyn wasted no time in picking up on.

'Don't encourage him!'

'I don't really see the big issue,' Lofty insisted.

'It's Francesca Hardy! Doesn't that mean anything to you? Oh, forget it!' Robyn rolled her eyes. 'I'd forgotten you fancied her.'

'I don't fancy her!'

'Well at least somebody else in this house is thinking straight then.' Robyn turned her attentions back to her step-brother. 'Unlike idiot-face here.'

'Hey!' Max protested. 'I don't even see why it bothers you so much. It's not like I invited you to watch.'

'Max!'

'Yeah, mate, too much,' Lofty agreed.

Max slumped forwards and cradled his head in his arms. This was _all_ far too much; why Francesca had had to get up at the crack of dawn and stumble around his bedroom like a baby giraffe, waking both him and Robyn up, he had no idea. Truthfully, it had stung him mildly that she was planning on leaving without even saying goodbye. It was such a Zoe-move that it had taken him back several months. If he'd hoped sleeping with Francesca was a way of pulling himself out of the abyss Doctor Hanna had left him in, he was sorely disappointed, as Robyn continued to berate him for his poor choices.

'Can you just not take a hint, Max? She doesn't like us! This… this was just a joke to her, a pointless, meaningless, unimportant-'

'Who's to say it wasn't the same for me?' he interrupted, unable to listen to her any longer. It was exactly the same list of thoughts which had been haunting him late at night ever since Zoe had left and he'd tried to make sense of the relationship-that-wasn't. In the daylight, he knew that she hadn't acted out of spite and malice, that Zoe had loved him even if she wasn't _in_ love with him. That he'd even learnt the distinction between those two states was something he should be grateful to her for. Robyn bringing them up whilst he was suffering the beginnings of a hangover was something else altogether though, and he was pleased to see her come to an abrupt halt.

'You mean… it was…?'

'A pointless, meaningless, unimportant shag.' He spat the words out, hating how they sounded. Truthfully, he'd never had one of those. He knew it didn't fit in with his demeanour; Max Walker was the ultimate in low-maintenance, high-fun escapades. Admitting he'd never entered into a one-night-stand without the tiniest inkling that it could turn out to be more was entirely embarrassing, so he never did.

His claim had at least brought Robyn up short. She blinked twice, clearly on the back-foot now. 'Oh. Oh, in that case…'

'In that case, can I go back to bed?' Max finished her sentence for her, more sulkily than he'd intended. It didn't sound like the question of somebody who'd just had a pointless, meaningless, unimportant shag. It sounded like somebody who cared rather too much.

Luckily, Robyn was at least as hungover as he was. The mere mention of bed triggered a Pavlovian reaction in her. Never willing to admit defeat, she at least backed off, leaving his room and enabling him to breathe properly for the first time in several minutes. It was only after letting out a deep sigh that he realised Lofty was still lingering in the doorway, looking at him in that enigmatic way he had. There seemed to be far more to the nurse than a mop of hair and a penchant for breaking things; Max just wasn't quite sure how much yet.

'What?' he asked, irritation with Robyn spilling over into his voice.

'You alright, mate?'

So they were back to that again. All that time he'd spent convincing them, convincing himself, that he was fine, perfect, completely unruffled by his mystery woman, and in one smooth move, Francesca Hardy had stamped over his hard work in her impractical shoes. Last night's invitation was looking more idiotic by the second.

Lofty didn't need to know any of that though.

'I'm fine.'

Lofty stared at him for a second too long for Max to believe he'd bought it. Then, with no further words, he headed towards his bedroom, and Max rolled backwards into his bed, knowing sleep was not going to be easy to come by.

* * *

Fran had spent the day after getting home from Max's in a state of restless anxiety. Knowing she wouldn't sleep no matter how exhausted and hungover she was, she had instead thrown her energies into the neglected marathon training.

Which was something she was sorely regretting today as she tried to tie her hair up and winced as she felt muscles she'd forgotten she had aching. Her usually so regimented training schedule had been thrown out the window in favour of running as far and as long and as fast as she possibly could. It was partly an escape mechanism, partly self-flagellation. No matter how far she'd run, though, she'd still found it impossible to switch her mind off the night before, so she'd started today more tired than she'd left work two days ago. It was something else she blamed Max for.

So now here she was, back in the staffroom, stashing her belongings in her locker, hoping against hope that she could escape from here and into the world of work, the only place she ever felt truly comfortable, without so much as laying eyes upon the subject of her irritations. If she could manage today, she had a feeling she'd be okay. She just had to get through one day.

Inches away from the door, she had to jump backwards as it threatened to slam into her face. Then she was face to face with those too inviting eyes and she knew she most definitely wouldn't be alright.

'Max, what are you stopping for-?' Robyn broke off as she pushed past her step-brother and set eyes upon Fran. Her expression only differed from his due to the hostility which instantly came into her eyes. It wasn't that Fran was unused to people looking at her like that; she'd never made friends easily. It was just that she couldn't bear the reason for Robyn's instant dislike of her now.

The awkward silence was too hideous. Ducking her head, she slipped past them both, feeling her cheeks burning red. It took her several minutes in an empty cubicle to regain the composure she usually enjoyed so easily. The one consolation was that it was over now. That surely had to be as bad as the day could get.

The morning at least afforded her the opportunity to escape into the world she loved: work. She couldn't understand the people who got up every day and trudged into a job they despised, or mildly tolerated at best. The only reason she never told anybody how much she looked forward to going back to work after a day off was that she knew they'd look at her even more oddly than usual. Plus, it was none of their business. She did the job and she did it well; her enjoyment was her own private matter. As she studied x-rays and interpreted results, she felt her earlier anxiety ebbing away. This was the reason she never did things like last night: why do something you were patently so unsuited to?

Work distracted her so effectively that her defences were down when she walked into the staffroom for a caffeine top up and the scruffy hair she'd been avoiding all morning was in front of her.

'Hi.'

'Hi.' She lingered by the door, wondering if she could run away. The patient in cubicle five with the infected ingrown toenail was looking more attractive by the minute.

'You alright?'

She nodded. 'You?'

He nodded, and she took a step nearer the door. This was hopeless; she could get a coffee from the machine in the corridor. Even that tasteless mud would be better than this excruciating moment.

She had the door halfway open before he spoke. 'Francesca?' Reluctantly, she turned to face him. 'About the other night.'

'Forget about it.' She said the words as though they were what she said every weekend, to every man whose bed she woke up in. They made her sound like somebody very different from the person she really was. She didn't know that she liked that very much.

What was the alternative though? That uncomfortable feeling was sweeping over her again as the situation seemed to slip from her grasp. This, whatever _this_ was, if it was anything, was a non-starter, for so many reasons, not least the fact that they worked together. Not for the first time, she cursed whatever had possessed her to agree to his invitation. It was a mistake she wouldn't be making twice.

Eyebrows raised, Max said, 'Really?'

Decision made, she nodded. 'Yes. It's for the best. With us… working together and everything… it would be…'

'Awkward?'

'Yes.'

Max gave one slow nod, and Fran could have sworn something changed about his face. She didn't know if it was the set of his jaw or the sparkle in his eyes, but a definite shift took place as he said, 'Right. Business as usual then?'

'I think it would be best.'

'Of course.' He nodded again. 'Enjoy your coffee.' He pushed past her. Fran congratulated herself on handling the difficult situation, even as the tiniest part of her wondered what had made a light snap off in Max Walker.

* * *

'Penny for them?'

Max jumped as Big Mac interrupted his thoughts. He forced a pained smile.

'Scratch that. You look like you just lost a pound and _found_ a penny. What's happened, mate?'

Max wasn't sure where to start, so he said nothing. It was too pathetic to say that a knock-back from Francesca Hardy was to blame for his downturned face. He'd had the knock-back several times before, from girls who had given him a much bigger come-on in the first place. Apart from that brief moment of what she was certainly perceiving as madness, Francesca had never shared a friendly word with him. He could hardly claim she'd played him. The signs had always been there.

And truthfully, it wasn't her. He almost smiled at that: it wasn't her, it was _him_. Or at least, it was the part of him which had been left to fester ever since Zoe Hanna had left. Whether subconsciously or not, he'd hoped that the other night would have been a turning point, a chance to erase his memories of Dr Hanna. Instead, he'd been left out in the cold again.

But that would all be too complicated to even try to explain to Big Mac, so he opted for the truthful but vague, 'Woman-trouble.'

'Ah.' Big Mac sat down on the bench beside him nodding. 'Still no luck with the mystery lady then?'

'Robyn been talking to you too?' Max shook his head slowly. 'There is no mystery lady.'

'Hence the woman-trouble.'

All Max could do was smile, because that was what he was good at. 'Something like that.' Standing up, he added, 'Catch you later,' before heading back inside. Because the other thing he was good at was distracting himself from what was really going on. Zoe had given him ample opportunity to practise that skill, and if Zoe Hanna couldn't break him, he wasn't about to let Francesca Hardy.

* * *

 ** _Next time: Mistakes We Knew We Were Making_**

 _'Doctor Hardy?' Robyn interrupted her train of thought. 'Mr Hyde's become very breathless, could you have a look please?'_

 _Fran dropped her pen and picked up her stethoscope, following the nurse into the cubicle, where Mr Hyde was indeed very breathless._

 _'Okay, Mr Hyde, could you try and take some deep breaths for me please?' she asked, pretty pointlessly as it was obvious he couldn't. The heart monitor showed a steady climb in his heart rate as he grappled for breath. 'Has the pain increased in your arm?' A shake of his head was all he was able to manage. 'Robyn, could you get some oxygen please?'_

 _Then, suddenly, the oxygen was too late, as his heart dipped into arrhythmia._

 _'He's crashing. Can we get him through to resus please?'_

* * *

Chapter title/lyrics come from Jennifer Hudson's 'One Night Only' (from the musical Dreamgirls)


	4. Mistakes We Knew We Were Making

**Thanks for all of the reviews so far. I didn't realise I'd made Lofty seem so smitten by Fran; it was unintentional! He was just supposed to be being nice!**

* * *

' _And all our sins come back to haunt us in the end, to hang around and tap us on the shoulder.'_

Cal slid along the desk until he was as un-ignorable as possible, even for somebody as single-minded as Fran. Even then, she took her time reading over the notes she had in front of her, until he was practically begging for her attention. It was just as well she didn't employ these tactics on other men, because she could get herself into a world of trouble.

Then, before he could actually do the begging, she said, more irritably than he thought was necessary, 'What do you want?'

'How do you know I want something?'

Without taking her eyes off of the notes in front of her, she said, 'You're breathing.'

 _Touche_. He might have taken more offence if she hadn't been entirely accurate, as usual. He just didn't know that she was this aware of his penchant for asking favours. Ethan would have seen through his advances as soon as he'd entered the department, would have sensed something in the air; this was why he'd gone for Fran instead.

'It's just a small favour.'

She looked at him over the top of her glasses. It was startling just how much like her father she looked when she did that. Cal had been on the receiving end of many of those doubtful looks over the years, as David Hardy had tried to get to get to grips with his unfathomable step-son. Since Cal's real father had walked away from him at the age of eight, David had been the only father-figure in his life. By now, even Cal was wondering if never calling him 'Dad' was mere obstinacy.

Knowing how Fran hated waiting, seeing it as a waste of her valuable time, Cal quickly made his bid. 'Swap patients with me.'

'What?'

'Let me treat the woman with the stomach pains.'

'Why?' Fran gave him a sceptical look. Possibly deserved, he wasn't sure. 'You know you can't date patients, right?'

He rolled his eyes. 'I'm not stupid. Or blind.' Each to their own and everything, but the woman was fifty if she was a day and had more spare tyres than Michelin. 'Just swap with me.' She wasn't convinced. 'My guy's easy. Routine chest pains, most likely angina, refer him to cardiology and send him on his way.'

He'd forgotten what a fortress his sister could be. 'You're bored. That's why you want to swap.'

'Not exactly.' Pretty spot-on accurately. 'I just want to make a good impression.'

'On who?' Then, penny-dropping, 'Mrs Beauchamp? By stealing my patient?'

' _Swapping_ patients with you. And… well, she doesn't have to know, does she?' Still no response from her. 'Come on, Fran! I'm begging here!'

He must have looked particularly pathetic, as even usually stony-faced Fran was almost smirking. 'Is this because Ethan's flavour of the month at the moment?'

'No.' Partially, although if Cal really wanted to get into Connie Beauchamp's good books, he'd need to both change his name to Hardy and swap gender. He wondered if she knew how lucky she was to be the boss's pet. 'Look, if it's that big a deal for you…'

'Oh, take her.' Fran shoved the notes towards her brother. 'If it means that much to you.'

He swiped the file before she could change her mind, replacing it with chest pain man's notes. 'I owe you.'

* * *

Ordinarily, Fran would never have made this swap. Apart from anything else, she liked to be challenged at work, and a cursory glance over Mr Hyde's notes and the symptoms he was presenting with suggested that he was one of the more routine cases they'd had in all day. Certainly, in comparison with her patient – the patient Cal had purloined – he would be a quick one, which ordinarily would have made her think more than twice about helping Cal out.

Today, though, was different. Easy and straightforward and simple was about all she was operating at today, and she was almost grateful for Cal's request. The woman with the stomach pains had been giving her a minor headache up until the point her big brother had come along and offered her an out.

Mr Hyde, however, was a breeze. He'd brought himself in that morning with tightness in his chest and minor pain down his left arm. Cal had hooked him up to a heart monitor immediately and it seemed her brother's half-hearted diagnosis was pretty accurate; there was certainly nothing in the read-outs to suggest that he was in any immediate danger of a cardiac arrest. Having prescribed a dose of aspirin, Fran was already filling out the referral forms for cardiology and discharging the patient.

'Doctor Hardy?' Robyn interrupted her train of thought. 'Mr Hyde's become very breathless, could you have a look please?'

Fran dropped her pen and picked up her stethoscope, following the nurse into the cubicle, where Mr Hyde was indeed very breathless.

'Okay, Mr Hyde, could you try and take some deep breaths for me please?' she asked, pretty pointlessly as it was obvious he couldn't. The heart monitor showed a steady climb in his heart rate as he grappled for breath. 'Has the pain increased in your arm?' A shake of his head was all he was able to manage. 'Robyn, could you get some oxygen please?'

Then, suddenly, the oxygen was too late, as his heart dipped into arrhythmia.

'He's crashing. Can we get him through to resus please?'

It was one of the marvels of an emergency department in Fran's mind, that as soon as those sometimes-fatal words were uttered, people would appear, just as the moment they were needed. Seamlessly, Tess arrived, collecting Ash on the way, so that by the time they arrived in resus they had more than enough people to share the load.

'What happened?' Ash asked as he began CPR.

'He presented with mild symptoms of angina,' Fran said, wondering now how she'd been so certain of that. How _Cal_ had been so certain. There hadn't been any evidence of a specific cardiac event taking place right now. In fact, the readings had suggested his heart was falling back into a steady rhythm. 'I was going to refer him upstairs, but…'

'What have you given him?'

'Just aspirin.' She was startled to find herself doubting what she'd done so far. She never doubted her abilities when it came to work. 'I was getting ready to discharge him.'

Ash didn't reply. 'What are his stats?'

'Asystolic,' Tess replied. 'Defib?'

Ash nodded. 'Let's give him one hundred. Everybody clear?' They stepped back as he applied the pads and Mr Hyde's body jumped.

'No output,' Tess reported.

'Going again. Clear?'

Still nothing.

'What was he doing when this happened?' Ash demanded as he handed over to Tess to continue chest compressions.

'He was just in cubicles.' Fran shrugged.

'Nothing,' Robyn added.

'This doesn't just suddenly happen,' Ash insisted. 'What's in his notes?'

'Nothing!' Fran said, suddenly feeling a prickle of fear creeping down her spine. It wasn't that she hadn't read his notes; she just hadn't taken much in. That had been a problem all day, actually, her inability to retain information as much as she usually did; it was something she was trying very much to ignore. It had been something she'd found reasonably easy to hide all day, given that, even functioning at less than her peak, she was still covering all bases. Now she wondered though, especially as Ash reached for the notes on the end of Mr Hyde's bed.

Time seemed to stop as his eyes scanned down the page. All the activity in front of them faded away and all that Fran was left with was Ash's flickering eyes which suddenly flickered to her as he spoke.

'Stop!' Everybody jumped, Fran the most of all. 'Tess, stop!' he said again. 'It's latex! He's allergic to latex! Get your gloves off!' Turning towards Fran, he said, 'Didn't you see it? He's in anaphylactic shock! We need adrenalin, now.'

It was like magic, Fran thought, as Robyn prepared the drugs and Ash administered them. Within minutes, Mr Hyde's heart was beating again, the colour flooding back into his cheeks. Such a simple solution to such a devastating event. What had seemed hopeless was suddenly fine again. No thanks to her.

'Get him a bed on AAU for now,' Ash was directing Tess as she lifted the receiver. 'And rush through that referral to cardiology, this won't have done him any favours.'

And then he turned back to Fran. She lifted her head reluctantly to meet his eye. It would have been better if he'd been angry, she could have stood that. Instead, he just looked disappointed and sad. That was different. Not that she'd ever made quite such a hideous mistake before at work, even when she was training, but she suspected most of her previous mentors would have flayed her alive for even considering such a mistake possible. Ash was very different, something she usually liked. Now she wished he'd do something more than just stand there, hands on his hips, seemingly unsure of what to do.

In a quiet voice, he said, 'Did you check his notes?'

'I…' She tailed off, unable to tell a lie, but knowing how the truth sounded. She'd taken Cal's word for it, believed him when he'd said this was a straightforward case. He'd been right, it had been, or at least, it would have been if it wasn't for an allergic reaction to something which was so easily avoidable; they kept non-latex gloves available just for cases like this. Mr Hyde should be on his way home by now, and instead Tess was reserving him a bed upstairs.

'Did you check his notes?' Ash spoke more slowly, seemingly even more quietly. It was as if he didn't want to be having this conversation, something Fran wholeheartedly could agree with.

Finally, putting them both out of their misery, she did the simplest and most honest thing. She shook her head.

Letting out a long sigh, Ash rubbed a hand over his face. 'I'll have to tell Mrs Beauchamp.'

She nodded again.

'It was a mistake, Francesca. We all make them. Don't beat yourself up over it.'

Again, she nodded, though his words weren't going in, because he was wrong: she didn't make mistakes. At least, normally she didn't. Lately, they were all she seemed to be making.

'Take a break. That's an order.' Ash swept past her, seemingly annoyed at having to do this, rather than annoyed at her. She wasn't sure if that wasn't worse. All she could hope was that Connie Beauchamp would take a more traditional approach to discipline and Fran would get the reprimand she deserved.

* * *

Having been away at boarding school since the age of eleven, Ethan had only seen three years of Cal's escapades at school up close. That had been enough, truthfully: three years of their mother wincing when the phone rang and wincing all over again when she had to intrude upon her ex-husband's new family to inform him of the latest happenings with his all-but son. It hadn't been that Cal was especially naughty or wayward. He'd just had problems with doing things the right way, the way everybody else thought they should be done. There was always a better, simpler way in Caleb Knight's mind, and if it resulted in a telephone call home, so be it.

When he'd gone to Lannister House, Ethan had missed out on the day-to-day goings on in his siblings' lives. Cal didn't learn to toe the line, but whether his mother hadn't seen fit to relate the stories or whether they were simply part of life and therefore un-noteworthy, Ethan wasn't sure. What he had been certain of was that, without his challenging older brother around, life seemed a lot less stressful.

In contrast, Fran hadn't even caused a ripple during her term at the boarding school. Ethan remembered how surprised he'd been when his baby sister, the cherished darling of the family, had landed in his school and been swallowed up. Her name was synonymous with wonder and awe at home, and he didn't even remember finding that annoying. Francesca had held all of their hearts captive from the moment she'd been born, somehow making it alright that David Hardy had casually strolled away from his marriage. Even Ethan's mum doted on her, inviting her over for play-dates when she was older, sharing childcare arrangements with the new Mrs Hardy in some modern kibbutz system. Ethan had assumed this was how people would always react to Fran.

Instead, she sank without a trace at Lannister House. What he still found painful to speak about was how she'd never once put her hand up and said she was drowning. He had kept his distance from her at school, because that was what you did. Even so, he'd never had the heart to completely blank her like some of his peers did to their younger siblings when they arrived at the school, wide-eyed and missing home. He'd made an effort to speak to her whenever he saw her. Just because he hadn't sought her out on a daily basis didn't mean he didn't care, and it still hurt that she had never indicated how much she hated it there. The one time he'd asked her why, a tipsy New Year that neither of them had ever spoken of again, she'd simply said she didn't want to cause a fuss.

So this was why the news that Fran had made a mistake, a potentially-fatal mistake, came as such a shock to him. Cal, he could have believed it of. Cal was the careless, carefree, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants member of the family. That wasn't the Hardy way, and he found it unlikely that Fran would have done something so amateur as to forget to check the notes of a patient. She liked reading almost more than he did, and that was saying something. It didn't make sense.

What made horrible sense was how quiet Cal was being on the subject. Usually the first to stand up for their little sister, especially if it proved how close they were in comparison with Ethan and Fran's mere blood-bond, Doctor Knight was conspicuously absent at the nursing staff's post-mortem of events in resus. There was more Hardy in Cal than he knew: throwing yourself into work at the first sign of trouble was how Ethan's family functioned.

It took some time to track him down, each minute only heightening Ethan's suspicions. When he found him, studiously filling in a patient's notes in his very best handwriting, he could practically smell his brother's guilt.

'What have you done?'

Cal's voice was far too high-pitched when he spoke. 'What? Me?'

'To Fran.'

'I haven't done anything…' Cal tailed off underneath Ethan's gaze, seeming to grow ever so slightly smaller. 'What's she told you?'

'Nothing.' Ethan rolled his eyes. As if she ever would. He would never know what the connection between those two was, but one thing he did know was that neither of them would ever rat the other one out. Such loyalty couldn't be bought, and Ethan wouldn't say he was jealous, just a little confused.

But Cal had confirmed that there was indeed something amiss here, so he pressed on.

'Cal. What have you done?'

A brief moment of hesitation before he went into damage limitation mode. 'Before you say anything, she agreed, okay, I totally didn't force her.'

'Always a promising opening.'

Cal gave him a withering look which Ethan didn't think he had much right to be throwing around. 'I'm just saying, it was her choice. I just…asked.'

'Asked what?'

'If we could swap patients.'

Ethan sometimes wondered if he was hearing his brother right. 'You… swapped patients?'

'Don't say it like that.'

'How am I supposed to say it?'

'It's not illegal! They still got treated. Nobody died.'

Ethan winced. That much was true, but it was tactless given the situation. It certainly wasn't the kind of argument that Connie Beauchamp would accept to justify all of this, and that was exactly his point.

'You're going to use that when you speak to Mrs Beauchamp?'

'Why would I speak to Mrs Beauchamp?'

Ethan raised his eyebrows. 'To take your share of the blame? He was your patient.'

'He was a patient in the ED.' Cal had never been so fussy about semantics before; that was usually Fran's area of expertise. 'He wasn't assigned specifically to me.'

'You're not serious?'

'I'm just saying!' Cal protested. 'Is it my fault if she didn't check his notes?'

'You couldn't have given her a heads up?' Ethan asked, and then he realised. 'You didn't read them either, did you?' No reply, which said all it needed to in Ethan's opinion. 'Then you definitely need to speak to Mrs Beauchamp. You're really going to let Fran take the whole blame?' Given how much Cal doted on her, he couldn't believe he was throwing her under a bus quite so casually.

'There's no point in both of us going down.' Cal shrugged. 'Oh, don't look at me like that. You really think Fran will let me take the blame anyway?'

'That's not the point.' Ethan shook his head, feeling defensive of Fran in a way he hadn't for a very long time. It was ordinarily Cal playing her knight in shining armour; Claire, Fran's mother, had even joked about that when they were small, how Cal more than lived up to his name when it came to his little sister. The fact that, most of the time, Fran didn't even need one musketeer in her corner, let alone two, left Ethan without much of a role to play in her life. This was unchartered territory.

So was trying to get Cal to do anything he didn't want to. It was something Ethan had given up on long ago, because it never worked. But this was different. This was Fran.

'Go and see her.' No requests here, and when Cal began protesting, Ethan simply repeated himself. 'Go and see her. Talk to her. Tell her… tell her it wasn't her fault. It's the least you can do.'

There was a moment when he wondered whether his brother was even listening. Then, with a deep sigh, Cal said, 'Okay, fine, if you think it'll make a difference.'

The way he stropped off towards Mrs Beauchamp's office bore more than a slight resemblance to the thirteen-year-old being disciplined at home for paying somebody else for doing his homework. Ethan wondered if Cal would ever grow up.

He also wondered if his sister would ever see through Cal's crap. As predicted, she looked at them both as though they were speaking one of the languages she didn't speak, blinking slowly. It struck him how tired she looked, then he dismissed it; he'd be tired after the day she'd had too. Truthfully, he wasn't sure he wouldn't reply in the same way if Cal offered himself as a sacrificial lamb, albeit grudgingly. What possessed them to be so loyal to their errant older brother?

'It was my fault. Not Cal's,' was all Fran said. 'I should have checked the notes.'

Which was true, a fact none of them could get away from. If Ethan hadn't been so preoccupied with his older sibling, he might have wondered why the younger one had forgotten such a basic part of being a doctor. As it was, all he could do was try not to let his annoyance show as she let Cal off of the hook, again.

'I owe you,' Cal said as he beat a hasty retreat, as if even being in the vicinity of Connie Beauchamp's office implied guilt.

Ethan couldn't leave without saying something, though. 'It's not all your fault, Fran. Cal should have said something.'

'I should have checked.'

Yes, she should have, and Ethan suddenly wanted to ask why she hadn't. It would have made a long day ever so slightly shorter, and stopped him falling out with his brother yet again. He wondered if Fran was even aware of the tension she caused between Ethan and Cal, and if she did, whether she cared. It wasn't a particularly nice wondering.

* * *

Max's worst ever day at work had been when he worked in a card shop at Christmas during his second year of university. It had been a bad job in the first place, as his three house-mates had taken a more literal approach to their Tourism degree and were working at a ski resort for the festive season. Not only did Max not have the money to get out to the resort, he also couldn't ski. He'd taken the job with a degree of irritation and he knew he hadn't applied himself well. There was only so much time you could spend lining up cards on a shelf before you went insane.

It was probably the tedium which had led to him forgetting to change the till roll until the last possible second. Not a big problem, he'd thought; that was until the manager informed him that it meant all record of sales that day had vanished. Max had spent a very long, very boring evening manually cashing up. Miraculously, they'd still wanted him to work there. After all, nobody had died.

Nobody had died as a result of Francesca Hardy's actions today, but that hadn't stopped people behaving as though they had. The man's allergic reaction had been halted, his heart re-started and he was now ensconced up on Darwin. By the time Max had left him up there, he was regaling his wife with tales of the white light he'd been walking towards, albeit in a rather breathless voice.

That wasn't the picture which had been built up in the ED though. It was testament to quite how little Doctor Hardy the Younger had integrated into the team; Max had never known the knives come out as quickly for a member of staff. He had a feeling even Connie Beauchamp herself might have been treated with a degree more sympathy and compassion by the nursing staff. Instead, Francesca was being savaged.

'It's the arrogance,' Robyn said now. 'It's like she thinks she doesn't have to obey the rules.'

'She made a mistake,' Lofty said, though half-heartedly. 'We all make them.'

'She almost killed someone!' Rita reminded him. 'A man almost died.'

Max found himself dragged in as Francesca's defender. 'She wasn't the only one who didn't read the notes.'

'She was in charge!' Robyn said, her insistence probably to be expected given that he'd been her patient as well. 'She's supposed to check these things.'

That much was true. Much as everybody made mistakes in their working life, mistakes were made that bit larger when you were an ED doctor. Things literally could be a matter of life and death, so every move you made could make a critical difference. Not reading the instructions when you were putting together a wardrobe might result in some collapsed furniture; not reading patient's notes could result in something altogether more devastating, as Francesca had learnt to her detriment today.

Even so, despite their last encounter, Max couldn't help feeling sorry for her. 'She didn't do it deliberately.' Quite apart from the fact that she wasn't the devil incarnate, one thing he'd learnt about Francesca from watching her over the past few weeks was that she loved her job. As in, was basically in a relationship with it. She wouldn't do anything to risk a messy break-up. This had been a mistake, pure and simple.

Robyn seemed about to argue back, perhaps to claim that Francesca had some dark side none of them knew about. For whatever reason, the doctor's mere existence in the department rubbed his step-sister up the wrong way, and that was when she wasn't doing anything note-worthy. Max supposed Francesca's rejection of him was, in the long-run, a good thing: he wouldn't have wanted to explain any relationship with her to Robyn.

Thankfully, Robyn was interrupted.

'Could I see some work taking place here please?' Tess cut into their conversation, sending Lofty scampering away without a second's hesitation, whilst Robyn and Rita went in their varying directions. 'Max, could you take the soiled sheets to the laundry please?'

'Sure.' He managed not to pull a face before she'd gone. Tess really knew how to remind him of the glamour of his job. This called for some coffee.

It was only when he was paying for his coffee at the shop that he glanced over and saw Francesca making her way towards Mrs Beauchamp's office. He could only see her from behind yet even her shoulders seemed weighed underneath an invisible burden. Everybody made mistakes at work, but few people had to face Connie at the end of horrible day. Max counted himself lucky that, for the most part, he was so far beneath the Clinical Lead's notice that he'd never yet had to answer to her. Tess was bad enough, but at least they could all see she had a human heart somewhere underneath the layers of steel. Max was beginning to wonder if Connie Beauchamp wasn't more robot than person.

It was without being aware that he was doing it that he ordered another coffee, guessing that somebody as highly motivated, sophisticated and downright hard-working as Francesca would like her coffee strong and sweet. The soiled sheets would still be there in five minutes.

The first thing which struck him when he saw her sitting outside Connie's office was how young she looked. She might have been sitting outside her headteacher's office rather than her boss's, although Max had a feeling that she wasn't the kind of girl who had spent a whole lot of time outside the headteacher's office unless she was waiting for a gold star. Perhaps it would have prepared her for this and she wouldn't look so ill. He wished Robyn and Rita could see her now; whatever their feelings towards her, nobody could gloat over how miserable she looked. It made his purchase feel all the more right and necessary.

His method of delivery could do with some working on though, he thought, as he merely held the coffee out at her eye level and was treated to a withering look from her.

'What's that?'

'Coffee?' He didn't know why he answered her with a question; she was even making him doubt what was in the cup in his hand. Burning through his hand, if he was accurate, and he wished she'd take it off of him. 'I thought you might want one while you waited for…' He tailed off.

There was a pause.

'I'm fine thank you.'

He had no idea why he wasn't taking her word for it; her decisions were usually pretty final, after all. 'Oh go on. I've paid for it now.'

'You shouldn't have.'

'I didn't mind.'

'No, really. You shouldn't have.' Her eyes flashed defiantly at him, blue and cold. 'We're… we're not friends, Max.'

Max was glad that even she had to stumble over those words as otherwise they'd be too cool to be true. He didn't know why but these were more hurtful than the way she'd brushed him off weeks before. Not wanting to repeat the night with him was one thing; not even wanting to accept a coffee from him made him feel worthless.

In a much smaller voice, he said, 'I'm only being nice.'

'You don't need to be.'

He regarded her for a long moment. Every inch of her was hard perfection, a shield between her and the world outside. Underneath though, there was something else, something he'd seen a flash of that night all those weeks ago: something softer, kinder. For some reason she'd chosen to cover that up with this harsh exterior, patching over any imperfections she might have. Today had been proof that there was something human inside of her after all, and she couldn't bear it. It was that more than anything else which made him worry about what might happen on the other side of the door. Quite apart from being angry with her for her total disregard for his feelings, he felt sorry for her.

Stepping backwards, he said softly, 'And you don't need to be like this.'

Both coffees were dropped unceremoniously into the nearest bin. The soiled sheets would wait no longer.

* * *

Silence was usually Fran's comfort zone. Apart from in her car, where the louder her music was the better, she spent most of her life in silence when she wasn't at work. It was where she felt safest and happiest. This should have been her perfect moment at work.

Somehow, silence in Connie Beauchamp's office wasn't really silent though. There was an undercurrent of noise which was buzzing in Fran's ears and making this one of the most unpleasant moments she'd experienced. She didn't know if it was Mrs Beauchamp herself creating this noise, or it was just the sound of her own reverberating nerves; whatever it was, it was horrible.

Risking a brief glance at her boss, she immediately looked away again, finding more than enough things of interest at her feet. Looking directly at Mrs Beauchamp was a non-starter. Fran wasn't certain she'd be turned to stone underneath her gaze, but she wasn't willing to find out. If she'd found the clinical lead snarling and snapping at her like the Rottweiler she was, she thought she would have been less terrified than this ominous silence. A Rottweiler trapped inside a cat's body, she thought, wondering how her mind was able to do this, wander off, when the situation at hand was so very real.

'Do you have anything to say for yourself?'

The bark was bad, but Fran had a horrible suspicion the bite might be worse, and it dragged her back to reality. She searched her mind for the right words to argue her way out of this, to justify how she'd made such a fundamental mistake. Words had never been her strong point; it was why she liked science so much. She liked to keep conversations short and to the point, always just about keeping the upper hand by finishing it as soon as she was ready. That strategy wasn't going to work today, so she took the other option open to her: she stayed silent.

'This sort of mistake is completely unacceptable! Do you realise how serious this is? We're lucky Mr Hamilton and his family don't wish to make a formal complaint!'

Still, Fran stayed silent.

'I don't understand how you can make such a basic error. It's all in his notes.'

'I know,' she said, in a subdued voice, because there really was nothing else to say. Even if she revealed the swap she and Cal had made, it wouldn't excuse her ignoring the notes, and she had a feeling that the swap was much less kosher than Cal had made out. Trading patients to enhance your popularity in the department wasn't especially ethical.

'I don't think you do!' Connie snapped. 'It's a fundamental rule, Francesca, check the patients' notes before you treat them! You realise I'm going to have to act on this, don't you? Consider this a verbal warning.'

Fran said nothing, not even nodding her head. This was just about her worst nightmare. Medicine was what she did, and she was good at it. It was one of the very few things she knew for definite: she was a good doctor. Sometimes she even thought Connie Beauchamp might think so too, though not very often; praise wasn't Connie's way of doing things, and Fran didn't usually mind that. She wasn't a child, she didn't need a pat on the head or a kind word. She was doing her job, doing it well, and that was normally satisfaction enough. This tongue-lashing was justified.

The lack of conflict seemed to deflate Connie a little. With nobody to argue with, she seemed to calm herself in the silence which followed her words. To say she became kind would be over-generous, but then Fran didn't think she deserved kindness right now, so that wasn't something she could complain about.

'So far, you've been an effective member of the team. Some might say an asset.' The praise was forced and sounded more than a little painful. 'I'm hoping today is a mistake you will never make again.'

From somewhere, Fran pulled the words, 'I won't.'

'You better not.' There was a long pause as Connie scrutinised her. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

Fran nodded. Manners forced her to mutter, 'Thank you,' before leaving. It was, she was sure, one of the most pathetic verbal warnings Mrs Beauchamp had ever been involved in. There was no fight back, no dispute. Even Ethan would have given her a better run for her money. Fran would have been ashamed of herself if her mind hadn't already run ahead to what was facing her when she got home. It was what her mind had been on all day, on and off, certainly when she should have been paying more attention to Mr Hamilton's notes.

At home, was a small box from the chemist. She was certain she could probably have purloined what she needed from the stores at the hospital, but the last thing she wanted to do was to bring that problem to work with her. Fran had been circling the box for the past few days, wary and anxious over what she might find if she ever plucked up the courage to open it. What was inside that box could change her entire future. Those were the sort of moments she could always put off, the moments when there was nothing more she could do; she'd not opened her degree results for three days after they'd clattered through her letterbox, and this was much bigger than failing medicine. This was a life-changer.

Maybe she could put it off for another night.

* * *

 ** _Next time: Born Lucky_**

 _Lofty seemed undeterred by Cal's puzzlement. 'Doctor Hardy? She's sick.'_

 _'What? Since when?'_

 _Lofty shrugged. 'She was treating a patient and… she was sick. Then she ran off.'_

 _'When?'_

 _'About twenty minutes ago?'_

 _'And you didn't think to tell me?' Cal demanded; hitting the nursing staff was strictly forbidden, but God, sometimes he thought a quick clip around the ear would knock some sense into this one._

* * *

Chapter title/lyrics from Mistakes We Knew We Were Making by Straylight Run


	5. Born Lucky

**Yes, this is based upon the episode. In fact, I've lifted dialogue in one place, when Charlie speaks to the team. That involved much repeated viewings on iPlayer! Hence, no lyrics as this isn't a song title.**

 **(Whoops, forgot to put the next time bit in! See below!)**

* * *

Fran had never noticed how warm the hospital was before. October had brought only the very first nip of autumn to the air after summer had reluctantly gone on its way. Holby ED seemed to have responded by cranking the heating up to 'one step away from hell'. She'd felt uncomfortably hot all morning, something not made any easier by all manner of patients descending upon the hospital when she and Cal had been left to hold the fort whilst everybody else had gone on what she could only perceive as a jolly to another hospital. Being left behind didn't suit Fran, and feeling this unwell was not helping, especially when she knew the reason behind it. She supposed, in light of that, she should be grateful she was able to throw herself into work; it was exactly how she liked to deal with crises.

'Doctor Hardy?' She glanced round at her name, even as she wondered how she was still Doctor Hardy when nobody else seemed to go by their legal name. Not that she was complaining: it was far more professional than the pseudonym this particular nurse went under. It lacked a level of inclusion though.

Lofty seemed shocked at her appearance. 'You alright? You look terrible.'

She inhaled hard and swallowed down the nausea. 'Can I help you?'

Lofty seemed to remember who he was talking to. 'Right, yeah. Could you come and have a look at a patient of mine? He's been brought in by the ambulance crew, found wandering around in a state of confusion. He's clearly been sleeping rough for a while and he's finding walking difficult.'

Fran reached for a fresh pair of gloves. 'Which cubicle?'

'Six.' Lofty matched her pace. 'George? This is Doctor Hardy.'

George turned out to be a man who seemed to have last seen fresh water before Fran had finished secondary school. His clothing consisted of various indistinct shades of brown. It wasn't that which hit Fran first though. It was the smell. It was a sickly sweet, uncomfortable smell which she couldn't quite place; it reminded her of supermarket shopping on a Friday night. It was all she could do not to gag, swallowing hard and hoping that would stave it off.

Faking an interest she didn't feel, she said, 'George, Lofty tells me there's a problem with your leg. Could I take a look?'

George eyed her suspiciously. He spoke with a slurred accent, almost certainly influenced by alcohol. Fran took his mutterings to be an assent and inspected the dirt-encrusted trousers.

'I might need to cut these, George.' She waited to see if he objected, wondering if a tramp would have more or less attachment to material items than somebody who had a house and money. When it appeared that he wasn't too fussed about his clothing, she reached for the scissors, alarmed to find her hand shaking. The air was altogether too close and stuffy in here.

'Do you want me to…?' Lofty offered, bringing her back into the moment.

'It's fine,' she said, not quite snapping but knowing she didn't sound fine. Her mouth watered and her skin broke out in fresh beads of sweat. 'A bit of space wouldn't go amiss.'

Lofty stepped back, hands held high, and she tried to pretend the extra space made a difference, when in reality it had made no difference whatsoever. Her hands still wobbled and her heart was now pounding in her chest, anxiety gripping just about every inch of her body. This was not okay.

The sight of the festering maggots in the wound on George's leg just about tipped her over the edge. She only just managed to aim for the kidney dish before she was sick.

* * *

Cal turned away from the cubicle with an exasperated sigh. This was not how he'd envisaged today panning out. Where he knew Fran was frustrated to have been left behind of the visit to another hospital, he had been looking forward to running the department in Connie's absence. It was the perfect opportunity to gain a few brownie points with the clinical lead, something he had been lacking in of late.

Now, he had to deal with the potential of his having a long-lost son in the cubicle behind him. It was the sort of hideous mistake which he'd half-lived in fear of for the past few years, but the timing couldn't be more off. The one consolation was that Ethan wasn't here to witness it, and Fran had so far been too preoccupied herself to get involved. There was still a chance he could get both the ex-girlfriend and the possible-son out of the department before anybody knew. Still, whatever happened, today was tainted now. He could kick something.

Instead, he studied the admissions board, a frown settling over his face. He turned to the first person he could find.

'What's with the backlog?' he asked Lofty, gesturing towards the almost-stagnant board.

'Well, we are a doctor down.'

Cal's frown deepened, wondering if Lofty's maths was really that bad. By his count, they were four doctors down, but so far the ward hadn't been in too bad a state, all things considered. It wasn't going to win any awards based upon today's performance, but it might just escape a belligerent letter in the local paper.

Yet Lofty seemed undeterred by the doctor's puzzlement. 'Doctor Hardy? She's sick.'

'What? Since when?'

Lofty shrugged. 'She was treating a patient and… she was sick. Then she ran off.'

'When?'

'About twenty minutes ago?'

'And you didn't think to tell me?' Cal demanded; hitting the nursing staff was strictly forbidden, but God, sometimes he thought a quick clip around the ear would knock some sense into this one.

'You were busy.'

'It's a hospital. Of course I'm busy!' Cal wrenched off the gloves he'd been wearing to treat his last patient. His _son_. Yes, he'd been busy. But so busy he didn't need to know his little sister was ill? 'Where is she?'

Lofty merely shrugged and Cal gave him up as a bad job as he headed out of the department and into reception. There were numerous patients waiting to be seen; he hoped they'd be able to clear this backlog before Connie got wind of it. Right now, though, his priority was his sister, the only other doctor in the department. If she was ill, he wasn't sure how they'd cope.

She certainly didn't look well when she found her in the staffroom. She was clutching a cup of water, her hair brushed back off of her forehead. She scrambled to her feet as he entered, though, still showing willing.

'Lofty said you were sick.'

The eye-roll was pure Fran. 'I'm fine.'

'But were you sick?'

'A bit. It was nothing.' She shrugged. 'I'm just… I'll be back out now.'

He held up a hand. 'If you're ill, you know I can't let you back out there.'

'You don't have much choice. I'm your only doctor.' The sass was pure Fran too. She wasn't so ill that she couldn't cheek him.

'If you're going to put patients at risk, I don't have any choice.'

'I'm not contagious.'

'How do you know?' He swept his gaze up and down her. 'You look awful.'

'Thanks.'

She did though. Pale skin and dark shadows underneath her eyes were testament to that. He could claim he'd been busy all morning, but he should have picked up on this. It was the sort of thing Ethan would have noticed. A strange feeling passed over him suddenly as he realised something unsettling: he'd missed his brother today, never more so than right now.

'Cal, you can't afford to send me home,' she was saying now. 'I'm not ill.'

He put a hand on her forehead, which she ducked away from. She was clammy but not exactly hot. 'How long have you felt like this?'

'I haven't felt like anything, it was a… split second thing.' She took a swig of water and almost gagged.

'Yeah, sure. Get your coat, Fran, you're going home.'

'I don't need to go home! I'm fine!'

'You've just thrown up on a patient!'

'It wasn't _on_ a patient.'

Being picky with semantics: that was pretty Fran-like too. Cal relented ever so slightly. He knew what his sister was like when she was ill, and it wasn't like this. It was harsh, but he thought being ill was about the only thing which made Fran less prickly and anti-social, which was odd, because feeling sick usually had the opposite effect upon people. He supposed she'd never been normal. Disturbing as it was, some of his favourite times with his sister had been when she'd felt less than perfect.

And he _was_ incredibly short-staffed.

'Are you hungover?'

'No!' She almost laughed, and he had to admit it was a stupid question. Fran, to the best of his knowledge, didn't drink to excess. He had in fact never seen his little sister even tipsy. One glass of wine at the end of the day was as much as she liked to dabble with alcohol, one of the few doctors who heeded her own advice. As for being hungover on the job, he knew she was too professional for that sort of behaviour.

There was something he wasn't buying though. Fran didn't get ill for no reason. She wasn't one of those people whose stomachs churned constantly, nausea triggered by every mention of blood or vomit. She was an ED doctor, for goodness sake: a strong stomach was basically part of the personal specification. She didn't binge drink or eat in dubious establishments or pick up every bug going. She didn't get sick.

'You don't just throw up for no reason.'

'Some people do.'

' _You_ don't. So what is it?' Irritation had made his voice creep up. He didn't know why she had to be so infuriating; on the one day he had no time to do this, she was making him take the time. There were dozens of patients outside waiting to be seen, people who really needed his time. His son…

Then it hit him.

'No…' He gazed at his sister, suddenly drained of all energy. 'Tell me no.'

'What?' She tried to sound innocent, but he saw the way her eyes darted around, as though she was some wild animal who had just been caught.

'Tell me you're not pregnant.'

Her eyes dropped to the floor. Whatever accusations he could level at her, there was one thing: he'd never known her tell an actual lie. Evasion of the truth was more her style.

He ran a hand over his face. 'I didn't even know you were seeing anyone.'

'I'm not.'

'Then…' He tailed off as he suddenly saw his sister anew, actually _saw_ her, and remembered Lofty's words on her first day: _hot_. People actually thought about her like that. Men. She was twenty-seven, not the little girl he'd left behind when he went to medical school. This shouldn't have been such a shock.

It was though.

'I can't deal with this right now.'

'I wasn't asking you to deal with it.'

True, but with the day he was having, Cal wasn't up to wrangling with his hedgehog of a sister and her pedantry. He swallowed down the anger, only because he tried never to get angry with her. 'I've got way too much to do out there. If you feel up to not vomiting on a patient-'

'-I didn't vomit _on_ a patient-'

'-then I'd be grateful for some help.' He turned away before she could argue with him any further, banging the door closed behind him. It was childish, but it did make him feel marginally better, even if both Noel and Louise threw him a disapproving look from behind reception. He ignored them; they weren't having the day he was having.

It surely couldn't get worse.

* * *

A problem shared was, allegedly, a problem halved. It was the sort of thing Max's granddad used to say and which Max himself had nodded along to and largely ignored. Still, the old guy had had some good ideas, so perhaps it was time to employ some of them.

Draping his arm around Robyn's shoulder, Max said, 'Hi. Have you seen an old woman about this high, smells like bacon?'

His step-sister threw him a disapproving look, even as her mouth twitched into a smile. It was times like this which made him love her; she could so easily berate him for screwing up the job she'd managed to organise for him. True, it wasn't his job of choice and he didn't intend to be here forever. Even so, he was still waiting to get itchy feet; that was a first.

'Have you lost a patient?' she asked.

' _Mislaid_ a patient!' he protested, as she rolled her eyes. Truthfully, he had a pretty clear idea of where Mrs Barker had gone: she'd been desperate for a cigarette almost as soon she'd set foot in the hospital. He'd head outside and see if he could locate her out there.

'Right, gather round everyone, please, gather round. I need your full attention.' Charlie interrupted Max's thoughts as he called everybody to the central desk. 'I'm afraid there's been a car accident, involving our doctors and Tess. Paramedics are on site treating casualties, two of which appear to be serious. Now the driver of the other vehicle is on his way in right now.'

General unrest followed Charlie's words, not least from Cal.

'How about the driver of our vehicle?'

'That's all I know,' Charlie said patiently. 'I do know that it's going to be difficult treating our own and I know that we're all going to be a bit worried. Can I ask one thing? No heroes, alright? If you feel the stress is getting to you or your concentration is slipping, I need to know. There is no shame in sitting this one out. Okay?' All the people around Max nodded, as Charlie gestured towards Robyn and Cal. 'You two folks with me.'

Max leaned against the desk, taking a few moments to process what was happening. Finding Mrs Barker was still on his to-do list, but it had slipped down it. Really, he wasn't quite sure why Charlie's words had hit him quite so squarely in the stomach. They were his work colleagues, of course he was worried, but he wasn't sure why he was so taken aback by what had been said. Unless it was those simple words: _our doctors_. For one split second, his mind had gone to one person only, even though he knew there was no way she was in that car. Over two months had gone by and he could still be dragged backwards so easily.

'Tess isn't having a good year,' Lofty remarked now, standing beside him. 'First the train crash, now this.'

'Neither's Ethan,' Max spoke softly as he remembered. 'His mum died in January.' Then, involuntarily, his eyes drifted to where Francesca was still seated, pen in hand. Irritation swept over him: her brother had just been involved in a serious RTA and she was… filling in paperwork? He didn't know why he was so bothered by that, but he was, and he was halfway to saying something.

Then he looked again, and noted how her hand hadn't moved for several minutes and how she was gazing into space. And he felt awful. So awful that he was more than halfway to saying something to her when she abruptly stood up and walked away.

As he watched her go, he couldn't help thinking how familiar a sight that was turning into.

* * *

Throwing herself into work was usually how Fran coped with problems. In the minutes since Charlie had told them all the bad news, she'd processed more patients than she'd have thought possible. She ignored the odd looks she received from the nursing staff as she went about her business; what other people thought of her was the least of her problems. More important was what was going to happen once Ethan arrived here.

Connie's arrival back in the department was greeted with a surprising amount of relief by everybody. Fran thought Cal had done a good job of managing the ward this morning, even given her little outburst, but things felt different once the clinical lead was back. She was certainly pleased that the pressure had been released off of her older brother; Cal didn't need any more stress right now.

Ethan was on his way in. Fran had been told that much, but Cal had been keeping his distance ever since their spat this morning. That suited Fran to a point: she wasn't feeling charitable towards her eldest brother at the moment. He'd reacted to her news as though it personally affected him, which couldn't be further from the truth. But then there was Ethan…

She found Charlie, Connie and Cal in the corridor, seemingly having a heated discussion which was over almost as soon as it began, her brother looking as though he'd won a battle. Fran had a very good guess as to what it had been about, and she wanted in.

'I want to help.'

All three of them turned to look at her, almost as though they'd forgotten about her. Fran was too fired up to feel much hurt at that.

Connie recovered first. 'Absolutely not.' Her eyes flashed a warning to her, reminding Fran of that annoying verbal warning. Ordinarily, she'd have backed off; for anybody else, she wouldn't even be having this conversation.

But this was Ethan.

'You're letting Cal.' The fact nobody denied it only compounded her surety that she was in the right. 'You have to let me help.'

'This is my department!' Connie reminded her, fire in her eyes. 'And if I say you're not doing something-'

'Fran, just leave it.' Cal turned to her. 'I'll… I'll look after him.'

The thing was, she knew he would. For all of Cal's many faults, especially when it came to Ethan, he was a great doctor and he cared about his patients. If she had to entrust Ethan to anybody, she'd probably choose him. But that wasn't the point and she opened her mouth to protest again.

'I'm not arguing about this, Francesca,' Connie said before she could speak. 'Either go back to cubicles or wait in the staffroom. Cal, with me.'

Fran's protestations died on her lips. Waiting in the staffroom would never work for her, and if she argued much further, she had a feeling Connie would ban her from treating any patients altogether, perhaps on a semi-permanent basis. Even now, Charlie was looking at her with a degree of concern which she didn't much like. _No heroes_ , he'd said. If he thought she was even half as anxious as she felt inside, she'd be sent home immediately. She couldn't let that happen.

Taking a deep breath, she flicked her ponytail over her shoulder and headed back to cubicles.

* * *

A sort of silence had fallen over the department in the wake of Ethan's arrival. There were still the same gasps of pain from the patients and the rumbling of wheels of the beds, but the staff had retreated into their own worlds. Max knew why: nobody knew what to say which wasn't going to upset somebody, so it was safer to say nothing at all. It was only when it was gone that he noticed how alive and positive the department usually was. He hoped everybody was okay.

Somebody who definitely seemed more than okay, against all of the odds, was Francesca Hardy. Max had watched as she flitted from patient to patient, prescribing medication here and ordering blood tests there. Like some carefully choreographed dance, she seemed to have been doing the job of the five missing doctors, not just her own, and she hadn't missed a beat. In many ways, it was impressive, and Max couldn't deny that he'd watched half-admiringly; she had the sort of energy that he could only dream of most days. Yet in the only way which counted in his book, it was hideous: beyond that brief spaced-out moment, she'd not even acknowledged that her brother was currently lying in resus. She didn't even seem to be thinking about it as she reset a dislocated shoulder and interpreted an x-ray. It was like she'd forgotten all about Ethan.

Max tried to put himself in her shoes, tried to imagine it was Robyn lying in that bed. Then he found he couldn't, because it was so alien to him. If it was Robyn, he'd be banging down the door of resus, refusing to accept Connie's commands for him to stay away. Even the abstract thought of his step-sister being in as bad a way as Ethan made him want to seek her out and check on her. How Francesca was still blithely going about her every day business was unbelievable.

Then, finally, the door from reception opened and Charlie came through. Like compasses, everybody re-orientated themselves, desperate for news.

'Ethan's going to be okay,' he said after only the shortest of pauses. General sighs of relief and the odd snippet of hysterical laughter. 'They've had to perform a thoracotomy but he's stable. He's being transferred upstairs. Max, could you pop through to resus in a minute?'

'Sure.' He nodded, even as the coffee in his hand finally became of a drinkable temperature; there was just no contest.

'What about Ash?' Lofty asked. 'Any news?'

Charlie grimaced, and Max instantly felt sorry for him; Charlie and Doctor Ashford went back a long way. This had to be hurting him. 'We're still waiting on that. For now, let's just be grateful that Ethan's alright.'

'Grateful that Ethan almost died when the other driver is creating havoc here?' Robyn muttered darkly next to Max.

Max didn't reply. His attention had already been caught by, who else, Francesca. She'd taken in the news in complete silence. Robyn was practically in tears and Ethan wasn't even her brother. Now, Francesca was motionless for the first time in almost an hour, staring out towards resus as though actually making the journey from here to there was momentarily beyond her. For the second time in one day Max felt bad, and he felt he owed the universe something to make up for it.

He turned to Lofty. 'Give this to Francesca, yeah?' He slid the coffee into his friend's hand before he could protest. 'She needs it more than I do. Don't… don't tell her it's from me.' He really didn't need hot coffee thrown in his general direction, and nor did Lofty.

'Or you could give it to her yourself?' Lofty suggested with raised eyebrows.

'I don't think that's such a good idea.' Max shook his head. 'Just make sure she gets it. I'll catch you later.'

He walked past Francesca without a word. He knew it wasn't good enough.

* * *

The coffee had long gone cold in Fran's hands. It had been far too strong yet oversweet to be drinkable anyway, and a simple caffeine fix wasn't going to make today any more bearable. Yet she still hadn't thrown the cup away. She didn't know why. She was far too practical to keep it for sentimental reasons that somebody had seen fit to be kind when nobody else seemed to care. She didn't need Lofty's pity or compassion: her brother was getting better, and that was the important thing. A stale coffee didn't mean anything.

It had been the worst day. Fran wasn't even sure she could fit it on a continuum line of bad days because it was so far out ahead of any other day she'd experienced in her life. She hoped it would remain the very worst day for a very long time, possibly forever. Her nerves wouldn't stand much more.

Things had moved fast since Ethan had been transferred upstairs (to the safety zone as Fran found she was now thinking of it). Ash had arrived, his leg a bloody mess, but his injuries barely registering on anybody's consciousness as Dixie had broken the news that nobody wanted to hear to the department. Truthfully, Fran had been glad she had somewhere else to escape to, away from the emoting and the drama of Jeff's death. She suspected that made her a bad person; she found she didn't much mind that on this occasion.

And through all of this, the coffee cup had come along with her. It was the sort of insane move she suspected people made when they had a traumatic breakdown. That was enough for her to put it into the nearest bin with rather more force than was necessary, so that cold black coffee spilled out over the side. She was about to begin mopping it up with a tissue when the door to Ethan's side room opened and Cal came out.

She'd only briefly seen either of her brothers over the past couple of hours. Ethan had looked pale and sick, still sedated to give his body time to recover. Cal, Connie, the cardiologist and all of Fran's training had told her that he was on the mend, that he was going to be fine, but that all made a lot more sense when it was an anonymous patient rather than her big brother. As for Cal, he looked pink-eyed and exhausted, certainly not like the doctor who had saved his brother's life with a tricky procedure he'd only ever carried out once before. Normally he'd have been crowing with pleasure over achieving something like that. Fran sort of missed arrogant-Cal.

'Is he okay?' she asked now, a completely unprofessional and civilian question.

'He's still pretty much out of it, but he's stable. They think he'll come around in the next couple of hours.'

'Can I see him?'

Cal nodded. 'We can stay until he wakes up. I've… pulled a few strings.'

Fran bit her lip. 'Should we… should we call Dad?'

'What? No!' Cal looked scornful.

'Ethan's really ill. I think he'd want to know.'

'Ethan wouldn't want us to worry him. He's going to be fine.' It was like it was some sort of affront to Cal's medical skills, wanting to get their surgeon father down here as soon as possible. His relationship with his step-dad was set apart from the one he had with his real father only in one way: he actually had one. Sometimes Fran wondered how different Cal might have been if his dad had seen fit to hang around longer than a few years. She wondered if he'd be more open to her suggestion now if his experience of paternal figures didn't completely suck.

Still, she couldn't fault his sibling affection. 'How are you?'

She shrugged. 'Okay.'

'Still feel sick?'

She shook her head.

He nodded slowly. He looked so tired, Fran thought suddenly, far older than his thirty-four years. She wasn't the only one who'd had an awful day, and she'd basically contributed towards his. That probably made her the worst sibling in this whole mess: they were hardly about to blame Ethan for being involved in a serious RTA. Even if it hadn't been her choice for Cal to find out today, she sort of felt she owed him an apology.

Yet somehow, it was only a request which made it out of her mouth. 'You haven't told Ethan, have you?'

Cal gave her an incredulous look. 'He's barely conscious. It hardly seemed the sort of thing to slip in.'

'Good.' Then, realising what she'd said, she added, 'I don't mean… I just mean…'

'I'm not going to tell him.'

She raised her eyebrows hopefully.

'He doesn't need it right now anyway,' Cal continued. 'And… it's your secret and I owe you, don't I?'

Mr Hyde. Fran didn't think she'd ever been so grateful to have made a mistake at work before. She let out a breath she hadn't even known she was holding. 'Thank you.'

'What are you going to do?'

She shrugged again.

'I mean, are you keeping it or-'

'I don't know!' Fran bit her lip, startled by her outburst, but knowing she really didn't want to hear Cal's list of the options which faced her. 'I haven't thought about it yet.'

'How far gone are you?'

'Only a few weeks.' She felt her brother's concerned gaze fall upon her and she hated it; Ethan was the ill one, not her. 'I'll handle it, Cal, I'll… sort it.' Then, keen to change the subject, avoid the one thing she'd been avoiding for the past ten days since she'd summoned up the courage to face her future, she shook her hair back off of her shoulders. 'Can I see him now?'

'Yeah.' Cal was momentarily blind-sided by her change of topic. 'Don't… stress him though, yeah?'

'No. Of course not.'

* * *

Max was done. It was only nine o'clock, yet he was desperate for bed. Putting the events of today into the past, separated neatly by a deep sleep, was about all that was going to pull him out of the black hole he'd tumbled into since Charlie had first broken the news that morning. But here everybody was, in their house, and nobody seemed particularly keen on leaving, as if leaving today behind was leaving Jeff behind. Max supposed he understood, but it didn't mean he had to like.

Lofty had extended the invitation to Rita, Noel and Louise. Of course he had. He'd probably have invited Cal and Francesca if the two of them hadn't had much better places to be. That would at least have provided a certain amount of awkward to distract from the soul-crushing despair which Max could practically taste in the air. Much as he admired his flat-mate's generosity, he couldn't help resenting Lofty for bringing everybody back and trapping them all in this endless downwards spiral. It made him think that maybe the pub would have been a better idea after all; it was probably exactly what Jeff would have wanted.

Lofty stood up suddenly, abruptly, making everybody jerk their heads up. Nobody had moved or spoken for over twenty minutes. Only the mindless reality show on TV was taking the edge off of the silence, and that was only because Max had insisted upon it; silence was one of his very worst nightmares.

'Shall I make some more tea?' Lofty asked now, looking between everybody, wide-eyed as ever.

Max couldn't really bear it any longer. 'No, mate. I'm… good.' The silence broken, he added, 'Actually, I might go to bed.'

'Already?' Robyn looked at him, pink-eyed and red-nosed. 'It's only early.'

Max forced himself not to comment on how there wasn't really much to stay up for. It would be too nasty and he really didn't want her to start crying again.

'I should probably be making a move anyway,' Noel said now, shooting Max a look of either gratitude or apology, he wasn't quite sure. 'Thanks for…' He tailed off, because beyond copious amounts of tea, they hadn't really offered up much. 'Can I escort either of you two lovely ladies home?'

So within five minutes, the household had halved. Ironically, it made escaping to bed even less possible, as they all stared at each other, unsure what they were supposed to say now. For people who stared death in the face every day at work, Max couldn't help thinking they were woefully unprepared for dealing with this.

'How do you think Ethan is?' Lofty said after a long pause.

'Charlie said he was doing okay.' Robyn nodded.

Lofty nodded back, and fell silent again. Max turned his attention to the television, trying to feign an interest in the goings on in Essex or Chelsea or wherever this group of privileged and idle people lived. He'd only ever half-heartedly watched this, disliking the fakery and deceit implicit in the very idea. His step-sister, however, usually lapped it up, no doubt seeing it as a mere extension of the gossip she so thrived on in real life. If Max had hoped Lofty might bring some much needed sanity into the house where scripted reality shows were concerned, he was disappointed; Lofty seemed to more than tolerate them, something that seemed to be a prime piece of evidence in Robyn's return to believing he was gay since his repeated denials of lusting after Francesca Hardy.

Francesca. He wondered how she was doing. The last he'd seen of her had been just after Dixie had returned to the department, distraught and incoherent. It was a very messy time in the ED and he expected he was the only one who had seen her slip away. She had other places to be, of course, and nobody could blame her for prioritising her brother over a work colleague she'd known less than two months. Max would have done the same. He couldn't help thinking she'd have done everything to avoid the scenes in the department anyway, though. High drama and Francesca didn't seem to mix. She liked things neatly packaged into boxes with clear beginnings and endings. It made her choice of career seem rather ridiculous, but Max had absolutely no right to judge when it came to vocations; he was still hunting his down.

Robyn spoke again. 'Do you think we'll be allowed off for the funeral?'

'Robyn.' Max pulled a face.

'What?'

'Nothing. It's… just a bit maudlin.'

'He's dead, Max! There'll be a funeral! It's supposed to be maudlin!' Her voice wavered on the edge of tears again.

'I know. Just… do we have to talk about it tonight?' He gave his step-sister a hopeful look.

She let his question rest unanswered in the air before dealing a killer blow. 'Someone's got to tell Jamie.'

Jamie. Max sighed heavily and cradled his head in his hands. He was his friend, his mate. Was that his job? The cowardly side of him said this was Dixie's problem, Tamzin's even. They were Jeff's… he wasn't sure what the collective term was, and it was too painful to think about. Whatever they were, this was surely the sort of thing you signed up for when you tied yourself to somebody else. Then he knew how ridiculous that was: this wasn't a job anybody signed up for.

'It can wait until tomorrow.' Nobody needed this sort of news today; it was the kind of thing which could always wait.

'Do you think anybody will tell Zoe?' He had no idea where that had come from. He hadn't even spoken her name for what felt like forever, certainly not underneath this roof. It felt like a private pain suddenly shared with everybody, raw and vulnerable. He wondered that he hadn't spat blood.

'Zoe? What's Zoe got to do with this?' Robyn demanded, frowning.

'Nothing.' Everything. It was the most alone Max had felt since she'd left, the most he'd wanted to share a cigarette with her, kiss her, just _be_ with her because the world around him didn't make any sense at the moment. This awful evening wouldn't have happened if she was here; she would never have allowed them all to drift away after their shifts, not without checking in with everybody. She'd have known exactly what to say. Max couldn't even remember seeing Connie.

'I suppose someone will,' Lofty said after a pause. Max wasn't sure if he was being kind because he knew, or being kind because he was Lofty. Either explanation was possible. 'Someone will let her know.'

Someone. Max wondered exactly who that someone would be.

* * *

 ** _Next time: The Last Call_**

 _'Ethan's gone to the funeral,' he blurted out, inches from her face as she emerged from the cubicle._

 _She blinked several times. 'Sorry?'_

 _'Ethan's gone to the funeral.'_

 _'Okay.'_

 _Incredulous, he said, 'No. It's not. Seriously, he's had a thorachotomy, am I the only one who knows what that means? God.'_


	6. The Last Call

**A couple of borrowed scenes again in this chapter as it is, again, based upon Casualty canon. It diverges after this.**

* * *

Fran had always been suspicious of herbal remedies. She liked medicine which had been comprehensively researched and reviewed by at least three independent sources. There was something trustworthy about the extensive list of side-effects inside the packet and the unpronounceable chemical names.

Nowhere in all her research did they recommend any over-the-counter remedies for morning sickness, though. She'd suffered her way through ginger capsules and chamomile tea and today's latest trial was so far proving as useless as all the rest. It was with a huge amount of reluctance that she took another sip of peppermint tea and wished she could have a cappuccino instead.

Paperwork was doing something to take her mind off of the empty pit in her stomach. For once, she was disappointed that Cal hadn't tried to offload his own backlog onto her; she was getting through her own at far too fast a pace and soon she'd have to stand up again. Standing up, she was rapidly working out, was her nemesis, which made a shift on an ED pretty tough going. Still, only an hour and a half to go before midday. In her extensive trawls of the internet in search of something to make mornings bearable again, she'd come across more than one woman who suffered like this twenty-four hours a day. She supposed she should thank her lucky stars she was unable to keep anything down for only a few hours a day.

She should probably also be grateful that everybody was preoccupied enough with Jeff Collier's funeral not to notice how pasty her skin was underneath her liberally applied make-up. But then, being grateful that somebody had died purely because they'd taken the heat off of her was in incredibly bad taste. The fact she hadn't even known his name _was_ Jeff Collier (although she'd known he couldn't really have been called 'Jeff the Paramedic') only made her relief more guilt-tinged. Keeping a low profile would be best for today.

Which wasn't easy when she seemed to have set up camp next to a larger-than-life-sized picture of the deceased.

'It could have been taken a few days ago, couldn't it?' Tess remarked. Fran tried to pretend she wasn't looking, but she sort of knew what the nurse meant. The photo was alive and buzzing with vitality. Jeff actually looked more alive than she felt today, which was depressing.

'They need to go over to the ambulance station,' Tess said now, gesturing towards a bunch of flowers, grand without being showy. For the first time, Fran became aware that at some stage Max had joined them. He looked pretty pale as well. 'They're from Zoe.'

Fran might have laughed at the way he immediately jumped if the look on his face wasn't suddenly so tragic. She hadn't realised how used to his general affability she'd become; even when she'd been openly rejecting him, he'd had a wry smile on his face. Even ignoring the context of today and everything which went along with it, he looked sad.

'You don't have to do it now,' Tess said gently, and Max's muscles seemed to relax, as if he'd been given permission to stand-down.

Then Fran realised she'd allowed herself to notice too much and tried to drag her attention back to the forms in front of her.

'There's a crease.' The receptionist, Louise, said suddenly, making a lunge for the side of the photograph, dislodging some of Fran's notes. Fran tried desperately not to react, but suspected she looked hacked off; certainly Tess's raised eyebrows communicated as much. Letting her hair fall over her eyes, Fran hoped keeping a low profile would become easier.

'Not so you'd notice.' Max spoke softly.

'It's meant to be the centre piece at a wake! I'll have to get it done again.' Louise left abruptly. Not totally unheard of from what Fran had seen of her so far, but today was different. Everybody kept saying it was, kept capitalising Today as if it was of worldwide importance. Fran was having to keep her tongue firmly tucked away to avoid saying anything.

Her exit was rather hindered by an extended groan from the cubicle behind them, one even Fran couldn't ignore. Both she and Tess looked towards Max for an explanation.

'That's been going on way too long,' he said with a pained expression as the curtain flew open and Lily emerged, closely followed by Robyn.

'I told you to go and find him half an hour ago,' Lily insisted.

'Yeah, and it's not my job to herd doctors!' Robyn retorted, although not with her usual chutzpah. There was something altogether more vulnerable about her when she looked like this.

'What's the problem?' Tess asked.

Lily readjusted her glasses in a move which Fran recognised rather too much. 'That man in the cubicle will only be seen by a male doctor. And Cal's gone missing. Again.' She stormed off, much as Louise had, before anyone could say anything.

'I wouldn't mind but she can be pleasant when she makes the effort.' Robyn spoke plaintively and then she froze, her eyes fixed on the smiling face of Jeff Collier in front of her. For the third time in as many minutes, somebody ran away from the ED.

'I'm gonna…' Max gestured over his shoulder towards where his step-sister had gone.

Fran blinked a few times, her head a little scrambled by the drama around her. This was why she usually liked to distance herself from people, especially her colleagues. This level of chaos and emotion was difficult to work in and she was pretty sure it wasn't conducive to patient recovery. Overwrought relatives were usually escorted out of cubicles; it seemed overwrought staff had to make that decision themselves.

'You haven't made it easy, that's for sure.' Tess spoke softly to the picture, to nothing as far as Fran could see. Then, suddenly, she was speaking to her. 'Francesca, where _is_ Cal?'

A dozen different ideas sprang into her mind. She could deny all knowledge, be annoyed that she was supposedly in charge of her eldest brother, say he'd gone to chase up some results. There were a hundred different reasons why a doctor could be missing from an ED, most of them excuses, none of them ever used by Fran, most of them already used by Cal in the short time she'd seen him at work. She'd never been asked for his whereabouts before though, thankfully. She could ignore his behaviour, refuse to be complicit in his sneaking off to check the football score or have yet another much-needed coffee. She wasn't going to lie for him.

After a very long pause, in which her basic morality wrestled with her basic loyalty to her brother, she finally said, 'He's with Ethan.'

To her surprise, Tess didn't react, not really. Here she was, two doctors down, the department only just functioning as they lugged around barrel-loads of grief, and yet another doctor had just declared himself MIA. Tess had every right to be furious. Yet all she did was nod slowly, almost as if it caused her pain to do so. The dignity and compassion was astonishing.

'How is Ethan?'

'Better.' Then, remembering some manners, she added, 'Thank you.'

'Make sure you send him our best.'

Fran nodded.

As something of an afterthought, Tess said, 'Make sure you take care of yourself as well. You're looking quite pale.' She'd gone before Fran could work out how to take her comment. She expected she was meant to feel wanted, cared for, appreciated.

Her next move was to visit the bathroom and put on another layer of bronzer.

* * *

Max leaned on the bench in front of him, the bench containing his sniffing step-sister. Tears had leaked almost constantly from her eyes in the past week so she'd stopped the sobbing and moved onto quieter noises. They weren't any easier to hear but they were marginally easier to put an end to.

'Robyn.' Nothing. She didn't even seem to have heard him. 'Robyn?' He gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes. 'Robyn, you've got to stop this. This isn't helping anyone.' Still nothing. 'Robyn!'

'I heard you!' she snapped. 'Stop going on at me!'

Max rubbed a hand over his face and walked around the side of the bench. Sitting down heavily next to her, he momentarily considered rubbing her back or something equally as affectionate and then chose not to because he wasn't sure it would help. 'I'm not going on at you,' he said instead. 'I'm trying to help.'

'Well, you're really not!'

'Jeff wouldn't want-'

'Please don't say that!' Robyn railed at him suddenly. 'People need to stop saying stuff like that!'

Max left a brief pause, before venturing, 'Well, at least you've stopped crying.'

There was an anxious moment of waiting to see what Robyn's response would be.

Finally, she broke into a small smile. Embarrassment made her wipe her eyes messily; she'd definitely need to re-do her make-up before the funeral.

'It just took me by surprise,' she said. 'I didn't expect…'

Neither had Max. He didn't always buy Louise's tactlessness; sometimes he was pretty certain her inconsiderate behaviour was planned and studied. But this probably wasn't, and that was unfortunate. Max defied anybody to be unstartled by coming face-to-face with the deceased on the day of the funeral.

Then, perhaps even more unexpectedly, Robyn said, 'I wish you were coming to the funeral.'

He threw her a sidelong look. 'Really? I'm awful at funerals.'

'I know. It's funny.' Robyn gave him another smile. 'Sorry. I know you're rubbish with crying women.'

'Since when?' He took less offense at the accusation than the fact that Robyn had actually worked that out.

'Laura Simmons, sixth form prom, 2004.'

She had a fair point there. Laura had been the very drippiest of dates and when she'd pretty much declared her love for him at their leavers' dinner, he'd had to let her down with quite a bump. How she'd ended up crying on his step-sister's shoulder, having stolen his ride home, was something he was still partially confused by, and it had made him ever so slightly distrustful of introducing girls to his family ever since; they inevitably preferred his dates to him.

'You don't need me. You've got Jamie.'

'Not much of a homecoming for him.'

Max had to agree with that. Of all the circumstances he'd ever anticipated seeing his ex-flatmate under, these were the very last. In many ways, it only made him more grateful to have been denied the opportunity to attend the funeral. He'd asked, of course he'd asked, because he felt he should and knew it was the right thing to do. But he couldn't say he'd been devastated when he'd been unable to find anybody to cover his shift. He was, as he'd said, awful at funerals; the whole atmosphere and reason for being there sat at odds with his natural disposition. Somehow, Jeff's funeral seemed even more inappropriate. He'd been about action and life, not misery and tears. Max was heartened by the photograph Louise had chosen for the wake; it was much more the Jeff he wanted to remember than a meaningless wooden box. He'd pay his respects in the pub tonight.

Before then, he had to get Robyn ready for the funeral, because she wasn't awful at them, and it was where she needed to be.

'Come on. You better get your face on.' He stood up, hands finding his pockets automatically, nodding towards the hospital. 'Can't let Jeff or Jamie down, can you?'

Robyn shot him a grateful smile. She didn't quite say thank you, but it was enough. For Max, smiling was always enough.

* * *

The past few years had been a time of a surprising amount of freedom for Cal. Being in your late-twenties and early-thirties was supposed to be about freedom and suiting yourself, but Cal knew he'd had it luckier than almost anybody else he knew. His dad was in no way his concern, and his mum was Ethan's. Fran was abroad and any girl who shared his bed made no further inroads into his life. He had lived purely and simply for himself, which meant the past couple of weeks had come as a complete surprise to him. To have Ethan's accident come hot on the heels of Fran's revelation had left him wondering which way was up, and he wondered when he'd be back to normal, because this wasn't a restful way to live his life.

Take now, for example, as he barrelled his way through the department hunting his sister down. His brother had already flown the coop, aided and abetted by Lofty, and in lieu of being able to pursue Ethan, he was determined to track down Fran. A bird in the hand was supposedly worth two in the bush, after all. More to the point, he wanted to vent to somebody who might be as irritated as he was.

He eventually found her treating a patient. She was thorough and professional and entirely frustrating as her assessment of the man moved at a glacial speed. Cal was left fidgeting outside the cubicle, knowing that bursting in upon her would only turn his sister against him as well as, apparently, his brother. By the time she turned to leave her patient, he could no longer contain himself.

'Ethan's gone to the funeral,' he blurted out, inches from her face as she emerged from the cubicle.

She blinked several times. 'Sorry?'

'Ethan's gone to the funeral.'

'Okay.'

Incredulous, he said, 'No. It's not. Seriously, he's had a thorachotomy, am I the only one who knows what that means? God.'

'Calm down,' Fran said. 'He must feel up to it.'

'He's not been discharged, Fran! He's just… taken himself.' Cal wondered if he was the only one listening to what he was saying; Lofty had been equally as nonplussed, acting as though he had absolutely no responsibility for what had happened, which was patently untrue, something Cal intended to remind him of if anything happened.

Now he pulled out his phone again and redialled Ethan's number.

'What are you doing?'

It was as though she was being deliberately dense. 'Phoning him?'

'He's at a funeral! He won't be able to answer!'

Cal ignored her, even as it switched straight to voicemail and he cut off his brother's too-perfect vowels, only to fidget with his phone, checking his text messages as if he might have missed one in the past thirty seconds. Ever since he'd found out Ethan had gone missing from his side room, he'd been unable to sit or stand still, always needing to play with something or be moving. It wasn't a feeling he'd had very often, but now he realised where he recognised it from as he looked his sister in the face. This was precisely how Fran behaved when she was agitated. Yet right now she was the one telling him to get a grip; he wondered why she wasn't worried.

'Maybe I should go after him.'

'What? No!' Fran shook her head. 'We're short-staffed.'

Cal blinked. He knew she was cold, but even so… 'He's our _brother_.'

'And he's old enough to take himself to a funeral, so…' Fran shrugged. 'He won't thank us for treating him like a baby, Cal.'

She was wearing way too much make-up, Cal suddenly realised. The sister he knew had been immaculately made-up since roughly 2001 when she'd been able to sneak subtle foundation and mascara past her dad's strict rules. Cal couldn't even begin to understand the intricacies which went into Fran's daily routine, but whatever it was, it worked for her. Usually. Today, she looked altogether painted and as if she was trying to cover something up.

'What's wrong with you?'

She gave him a suspicious look. 'Because I don't think we should walk out on work to drag Ethan back?'

'Because you look like death. Are you still being sick?'

'Will you shut up?' Fran dragged him to one side now, clearly embarrassed by his volume. 'I'm fine!'

His inability to deal with his siblings' dramas, because they'd never had any before, came to the forefront. It was times like these he wondered whether he was even suited to being a big brother; he'd certainly never had much of a chance to build up the vital skills it seemed you needed. Unsettled, he continued to speak. 'Have you decided what you're going to do yet?'

'Cal! Shut. Up.' Fran glanced around. 'We are not doing this here. We're talking about Ethan.'

'Who you apparently don't want to talk about!'

'Is there a problem here?' Tess broke into their conversation in the forthright, firmly polite way she did everything.

'No!' Fran shook her head as Cal said, 'Ethan's gone missing.'

'He hasn't gone _missing_ ,' Fran clarified as Tess's eyebrows shot up. 'He's gone to the funeral. He'll be fine.'

Cal wondered if Tess thought his sister was quite as callous as he did right at that moment. Fran already had a reputation of being quite the ice-queen on the ED, perhaps giving Mrs Beauchamp herself a run for her money. Even by those standards, her lack of care about Ethan was something new. Cal felt momentarily angry with her, and then concerned. However much she failed to show it on a daily basis, she loved Ethan; Fran liked so very few people that those she did were loved wholly and unconditionally. That she didn't demonstrate it very regularly was by the way. The fact she was so disinterested in her brother's whereabouts suggested she was currently dealing with rather a lot herself. Now definitely wasn't the right time to tackle it, and Cal didn't even know how he would begin. Not for the first time, he wished Ethan already knew about Fran's pregnancy. He'd know what to do.

'I'll see if I can get hold of one of the others,' Tess said now. 'Don't panic. He'll be alright.'

Somehow Tess's assurances were much more convincing than Fran's, and Cal was momentarily persuaded into not worrying too much. Ethan was much stronger than he had been and if something did go wrong, a funeral filled with medical professionals was probably the best place to get sick. Ethan would be okay.

Fran was a whole other matter.

* * *

Ethan hadn't really thought this through. He'd taken the whole process step-by-step, never thinking too far ahead. It was a method he rarely used himself, but it usually worked quite well for Cal, and it had got him this far. It was just now, barely halfway through the funeral, that he realised how poorly he'd judged his own levels of fitness. Adrenalin and determination had pushed him this far, but he wasn't sure that it would carry him much further. This may have been a mistake.

Yet he couldn't say he totally regretted it. The alternative - sitting in his hospital bed, reading reports of the crash over and over, thinking over what had happened only days ago and never getting a chance to say so much as a thank you – was unbearable. Ethan knew it was the oldest cliché in the book that doctors made the worst patients, but he knew he was terrible at it. Going to boarding school, sick days involved being monitored by the school nurse on an hourly basis, something nobody would choose over even the most mundane lessons. He'd dragged himself into lectures at university with tonsillitis and a kidney infection. Since becoming a doctor, he'd taken one day off sick when he'd eaten questionable chicken. Being ill just wasn't his thing and lying upstairs whilst the ED had been going about its business had been killing him, even if that was an unfortunate turn of phrase in the circumstances.

Being here gave him a chance to assess how he felt, something which had been rather clouded in the hospital. There'd always been someone coming or going: nurses checking up on him, Cal using his brother as an excuse for skiving work, an endless stream of visitors. It was nice that they cared, he wasn't complaining. It just wasn't especially restful, despite the fact that rest was precisely what he was expected to be doing. In contrast, the silence in the crematorium turned out to be exactly what he needed to let his mind catch up with what his body had been through in the last ten days.

Shamefully, all he kept finding his thoughts returning to was that wooden box in front of him. This had been billed as a celebration of Jeff's life, yet at the centre of everything was a very real reminder of how that life had been snuffed out in a split second. Ethan tried to steer his thoughts away from the darkest recesses of his mind which asked questions he didn't want to try to answer: the accident had been horrific, catastrophic, so what purpose was that box really serving? Whatever the point of it, Jeff, the real Jeff, certainly wasn't in it.

It had been a long year, Ethan mused now, remembering the last funeral he'd been to. He still wasn't sure he'd processed that one. There were still mornings when he'd reach out of bed and check his phone, expecting to see a message from his mum's carer asking him to call. That was perhaps the saddest thing about that whole mess: how he'd stopped hearing from his mum and heard from Jenny instead. It was probably why the end, when it came, had seemed so anti-climactic; he'd stopped communicating with his mum long ago. The disease had stolen her from him gradually, leaving nothing behind: no pain, no real sense of loss. Ethan wasn't even sure he'd cried to any great extent when she'd finally died. Now, almost a year later, he still felt numb.

As for Cal, Ethan wasn't even sure he felt that much. He seemed to feel nothing, their mother's death not even casting a ripple across the millpond of his life. It had been so easy for him, swanning in after all the hard work was done. Even the will had been Ethan's responsibility, his choice, his decision. That Cal had accepted the money and still refused to leave was merely symptomatic of his brother's lack of respect for anyone or anything around him.

It seemed feeling numb was limited entirely to Ethan's feelings about his mother's death; emotions about his brother were altogether easier to access.

Yet all of that didn't explain Cal's words last week. Ethan had been drugged up, only semi-conscious, and yet he'd heard the pain and anguish in Cal's voice clearly. Quite apart from that, the words themselves had been at odds with Ethan's usual views of his brother. They were raw and painful and sounded almost-truthful. They made no sense, but Cal rarely made sense, at least as far as Ethan was concerned. He didn't think that entirely detracted from the moment they'd unwittingly shared.

With some shame, Ethan realised he'd zoned out of most of the funeral. Already, people were getting up to leave and he stumbled to his feet, trying to let those in the row next to him escape. He blinked as he reached his full height, his vision blurring momentarily, and rested his hand on the back of the seats in front. This was probably precisely why his doctors had advised against his attending this funeral. Or, more accurately, had refused to discharge him just yet. They _would_ have advised him against attending this funeral if they'd had an inkling of what was going on behind his glasses. He still had that to face.

Then there was a strong hand on his upper arm.

'You look awful,' Ash informed him. 'What are you even doing here?'

Ethan opened his mouth, unable to quite explain himself out loud. Then he shrugged; if anybody would know, Ash would.

The other doctor gave a sigh and nodded. 'I know. Stupid question. Are you okay?'

'Yeah, sure.' Ethan nodded, even as that made him feel slightly dizzy. 'I'm just tired.'

'We'll get you back to the hospital,' Ash decided, something Ethan was surprisingly grateful for. 'Come on.'

The cab ride back to the hospital felt at least twice as long as the one he'd taken to the crematorium. Despite his assurances to Ash that he felt perfectly fine, he had to admit that he was marginally concerned by his lack of energy. Having never really been ill before, it was coming as quite a shock how much the accident had taken out of him. The only thing which made Ethan feel that what he was experiencing might be normal was seeing how ill and tired Ash looked; perhaps this was just what recovering from a traumatic experience was like.

Cal's reaction when Ethan and Ash returned to the department didn't do much to alleviate his concerns. It was as though his brother had been waiting inside the door this whole time, and only now did Ethan think about his switched off phone in his pocket; he didn't want to guess how many messages might be stored up on it by now. Surprised by the welcoming committee, Ethan put on a brave face.

'Okay, guys, I've got this, thank you.' Cal took hold of Ethan's arm possessively and began manoeuvring him towards resus. 'Can we get an ECG done on him as soon as possible?'

On his other side, Lily chipped in. 'Are you in pain?' She sounded almost as concerned as Cal, and Ethan wondered if he'd stumbled into an alternate universe where his brother and Dr Chao had discovered their human side whilst he'd been away. All he needed to be convinced was for Fran to burst in upon him and fling her arms around his neck crying. Having not seen his little sister since the night of the accident that would be even more of a novelty than usual.

Now, playing down his exhaustion, he insisted. 'Not really, I just feel a bit weak.' The sort of weak which would be best solved by being left alone in a darkened room for twenty-four hours, something he doubted he'd be awarded if Cal's persistence was anything to go by.

'Can we just sort it out please?' he badgered now, impatient even when he was trying to be kind.

'When was the last time you ate?' Lily asked. All these questions: Ethan wondered if they'd orchestrated this inquisition.

'I had some mouldy blackberries about 10 o'clock.'

Lily was clearly horrified by this, possibly rightly so. It wasn't the nutritious kind of breakfast he expected she aimed for every morning. 'That's it? How about a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich?'

Too domestic for Cal by far. 'Okay Lily, if you want to play dinner ladies then I'll sort out the ECG alright?' Irritable, he practically dumped Ethan on the bed as he reached for the equipment.

Ethan was barely able to suppress a smile as he said, 'When you said "I can't let anything happen to you", I didn't think you meant it quite so literally.'

There was a brief second when Cal's face was open and entirely readable and Ethan could see the impact of his words. Then it closed in upon itself as Cal bluffed his way out.

'I never said that. When did I say that? Must have been Fran.'

The smile spread across his face now, because the lie was just so pathetic; Fran would be even less likely to say something like that than Cal was, and that was saying something. Confident in himself, he continued, '"You're my safety net. You're all I've got."'

Even Cal, King of the Crap, was beaten now. His mouth twisted in a shame-faced smile as he said. 'Right. You were conscious.' A single nod was all that was needed. 'As you know, people say all sorts of gibberish when they're stressed.' Then, as if it was the conclusion to a finely crafted argument, he added. 'And it couldn't be true anyway, could it. Because of Fran.'

Of course. Fran. Always Fran.

'Speaking of which, where is Fran?'

Cal frowned as he attached the leads. 'Around somewhere. Why?'

'Is she okay?'

The frown deepened, although Ethan could have sworn he saw a moment when something like fear passed across his brother's face. No, something like _guilt_. Then, 'Why wouldn't she be?'

'I haven't seen her in over a week. I thought something might have happened to her.'

Cal looked so genuinely surprised that Ethan momentarily felt sorry for him. 'She's… what? But I thought she'd been to see you, she said…'

Ethan let the thought sit for a minute before saying, 'She didn't say anything, did she?' Lying wasn't Fran's way; saying nothing absolutely was.

Cal shook his head reluctantly, still unable to sell their little sister completely down the river. 'I just assumed.' Always an error where Fran was concerned in Ethan's experience. 'She's not been to see you at all?'

It seemed defending Fran was contagious. 'It doesn't matter.' In some ways, it didn't. If Fran had been popping by even half as often as Cal had been, he wasn't sure when he'd ever had got any rest. She'd almost done him a favour by steering clear. In other ways, it very much _did_ matter. She was his sister. That mattered very much.

Cal finished attaching the leads and switched the monitor on. It scrambled into life and emitted a steady, regular beat. They watched it in silence for a few seconds before Ethan said, 'So I'm still alive then.'

'Shut up,' Cal responded automatically as he flicked the ECG off. 'That… that was a stupid thing you did.'

'I know. Sorry.'

Cal shook off the silence which followed. 'Right. We should get you back upstairs. I'll get a porter.'

'Cal.' Ethan stopped him. 'I'll take myself. I can manage that much. I'll… see you later?'

Cal nodded. 'Yeah.'

Ethan found he was almost looking forward to it.

* * *

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Fran found herself hunted down by her brother. Cal _was_ the sibling who did that more often, harassing her with emails or voicemails if she went off grid for too long. Even so, even for him, this was extreme.

'Why haven't you been to see Ethan?'

Pleased to have something else to distract her, Fran pretended to be absorbed in the notes she'd just been handed by Lofty. 'Today?' she asked, feigning confusion, hoping that Ethan might not have completely thrown her underneath a bus.

'Today. Yesterday. For the past week.' With alarming force, Cal twisted her around by her shoulder. 'You haven't been to see him at all since the accident.'

'I saw him on the first night,' she insisted, a stickler for facts as ever. She knew it wasn't enough, and it sounded even more pathetic than if she'd steered completely clear.

Especially as, 'He was unconscious!'

She might have known that Cal, trained experienced ED doctor Cal, would have noticed that. Sometimes she wished her brothers were ever so slightly less educated than she was.

Cal waited for a come-back which didn't come. Fran couldn't help thinking she'd sort of let him down as well, and she hated doing that. There was nothing she could say to really justify her actions, so she said nothing.

It only seemed to anger him more.

'I don't get this, Fran! He's your _brother_! He was really sick and you… you just didn't care?'

'I care!' That was an accusation too far. Just because she didn't go around emoting and despairing, it didn't mean she didn't care. She knew it was something she was awful at showing and even worse at talking about, but usually that was okay. Usually, Cal got it. 'He had you,' she said now, sulkily, shrugging. It reminded her of what she'd said to Ethan himself weeks earlier about his mother's death: _You had Cal_. It hadn't been enough then, and she somehow doubted Ethan would think it was enough now.

'That's not the point and you know it.' Cal shook his head slowly. 'You only had to go and see him, Fran.' Then, rather cuttingly, he added, 'It's not like you don't have enough to talk about, after all.' His pointed look said everything it needed to.

The thing was, that was _precisely_ the point. There was so much she should be telling Ethan, and Cal, that she didn't know where she'd start even if she wanted to, which she definitely didn't. Talking about it made it real and it was bad enough Cal bringing it up at every opportunity. For all of his brashness, Cal was the easy one. Fran couldn't even imagine how Ethan would react to her news, and she didn't want to trial it. Somehow she wasn't sure her steely exterior would hold up in an enclosed environment with her half-brother, so she'd avoided the situation entirely. That it had taken Ethan so long to spill the news to Cal showed more loyalty on his part than she really deserved from him.

Rather more wearily than angrily, Cal said, 'I take it you're not going to the wake tonight?'

Fran blinked, momentarily caught off guard. It was the sort of topic change she was used to from Cal, but it didn't mean she didn't need a few seconds to process it. Truthfully, she'd forgotten all about the wake; it wasn't exactly a party, but it was social enough to have a black mark against it in her book. Anyway, she wasn't even sure she was invited, if you could be invited to a wake. She wasn't exactly part of the community of the department.

Eventually, she said, 'No.'

Cal nodded. 'Okay. So will you go and spend some time with Ethan then? Just for an hour, just so I know he's not going to wander off again?'

Dressing her basic sisterly duty up as a favour to him: Fran wasn't sure if she was meant to feel grateful or ashamed. She felt a bit of both for good measure.

'Fran?'

She nodded slowly.

'Promise?'

'Yes!' she said, more irritably than he deserved. 'I'll… see him when my shift ends.'

'Okay.' Cal nodded again. 'I'll catch you later then.'

Fran turned back to the notes, her mind momentarily scrambled by thoughts of her brothers and her behaviour and the secret burning away inside of her. She wasn't used to quite so much chaos in her life. She'd long ago found out that avoiding personal connections and anything approaching relationships made for a much easier life; in fact, she'd probably attribute her almost flawless examination record to the amount of time she'd saved throughout school and university by not indulging in the more social side of things. The past few weeks had been proof positive that her methods had always been right. Since Max, and Ethan's accident, and Cal's concerned glances, her mind hadn't been exactly upon the job at hand. She hated that. Work was what she was good at; without it, she wasn't sure what she was.

So, carefully and coolly, she tucked away all of her thoughts and worries into a box inside her head, sealing doors and bolting locks behind it, until all she was left with was the problem in her hand: the mysterious symptoms of the man in cubicle seven. Here was a problem she could attack properly.

The rest of it could wait.

* * *

 ** _Next time: Burning_**

 _'For the next thirty minutes, our priority is to clear the department,' Tess was explaining. 'Any vulnerable patients especially need to be moved out or upstairs. That's children, the elderly, anybody with long-term medical conditions and any pregnant women.'_

 _It was the last part which made Cal's ears prick up and he was unable to avoid immediately seeking out his other sibling in the room. She was resolutely facing forward, no sign of her having even heard what Tess was saying, let alone having related it to herself. He knew how Fran worked after twenty-seven years: she'd ignore everything she possibly could to focus on the job at hand. It was the kind of intensity which made her very good at her job. Much like Ethan, he admitted grudgingly. But it was also the kind of closed-mind stubbornness which meant she would stay in this department regardless of any danger this might pose to her, or the baby she seemed to be doing everything possible to forget about._


	7. Burning

' _If I told you a secret, you won't tell a soul, will you hold it and keep it alive? Cause it's burning a hole and I can't get to sleep'_

'Okay, thank you for gathering everybody.' Tess's voice cut through the general babble of noise that was symptomatic of whenever the whole department got together. 'There's some news we need you all to hear.'

The conversations died down as everybody fixed their attention on Connie and Tess, standing side by side. That in itself was worth a moment, Cal thought, knowing everybody else was thinking the same. Whatever was making the two of them work so seamlessly together was worth listening to.

'We've just heard that there's been an accident at the nuclear power plant,' Connie explained. 'Several members of staff have been injured and we're expecting between ten and fifteen patients within the next half an hour.'

'Nuclear?' Lofty broke in. 'Is that… radioactive?'

'We have reason to believe that it may be.' Connie's look of irritation was fleeting as a bubble of noise flowed throughout the staff room. 'Obviously this comes with some concern, but we have no expectation that this will place any staff or patients of the hospital at any risk.'

'What about the paramedics?' Robyn asked, the question everybody wanted answering but wouldn't ask. She looked around in the silence that followed. 'It's just… after…'

'They're fine.' Charlie gave her a small smile.

'However,' Tess put in, 'we are taking the decision to close the ED to any further patients. Those who can be discharged or moved upstairs should be moved as soon as possible. Ambulances are going to be re-directed to St James'.'

'So, no risk but we're going into lockdown?' Max asked, that infuriating smile on his face. Cal wondered if the porter ever took anything seriously.

'We're taking precautions,' Tess replied firmly.

'At the moment, we are dealing with surface burns,' Connie continued. 'But there are two patients with more serious injuries. I'll need two teams in resus.'

'I'm more than willing,' Cal said quickly, gratified to see Ethan's look of irritation directed towards him. It would be a shame to miss an opportunity to compete with his brother.

'Wonderful, Doctor Knight,' Connie gave him a tight smile. 'I wasn't looking for volunteers.'

Cal dropped his eyes to the floor, suitably cowed.

'For the next thirty minutes, our priority is to clear the department,' Tess was explaining. 'Any vulnerable patients especially need to be moved out or upstairs. That's children, the elderly, anybody with long-term medical conditions and any pregnant women.'

It was the last part which made Cal's ears prick up and he was unable to avoid immediately seeking out his other sibling in the room. She was resolutely facing forward, no sign of her having even heard what Tess was saying, let alone having related it to herself. He knew how Fran worked after twenty-seven years: she'd ignore everything she possibly could to focus on the job at hand. It was the kind of intensity which made her very good at her job. Much like Ethan, he admitted grudgingly. But it was also the kind of closed-mind stubbornness which meant she would stay in this department regardless of any danger this might pose to her, or the baby she seemed to be doing everything possible to forget about.

He'd missed Connie's closing remarks and by the time he realised what was happening, people were moving and the door was open and Fran was making her way towards it.

If being focused and intense was a Hardy trait, reckless impulsivity was definitely a Knight thing.

'Fran!' Even he was a little surprised by how loud he was. Everybody around them flinched, half looking towards him, half looking at Fran, who now met his eye and he could feel every cell of her body willing him to shut up, to say nothing.

'Is something wrong?' Connie demanded. When neither of them gave an answer, she said, 'Doctor Hardy?'

'Nothing.' Fran shook her head and threw her brother another desperate look.

'Doctor Knight?'

Cal took a long hard look at his sister and hoped she'd forgive him. He had enough problems with Ethan; he really didn't want Fran to hate him too, and Ethan at least shared some DNA. This was the right thing to do though.

'Fran needs to go home.'

Connie looked Fran over, a bemused expression on her face. 'Is there something I need to know about?'

'No!' Fran shook her head.

'She's pregnant.' He winced inwardly as an electric thrill passed through everybody around them. Already he was thinking how this could have gone so much better if he had just kept quiet for one minute longer and had this conversation in private.

To Connie's credit, her sole reaction was a marginally raised eyebrow. Turning back to Fran, she asked, 'Is that true?'

Cal knew how much it cost his sister to say, 'Yes.'

'You're off the ward in the next half an hour.'

'But…'

Connie had gone without even entertaining Fran's protestations.

'Fran, I'm sorry-' Cal began.

'Forget it.' Fran shot him a look before leaving the staffroom.

'Fran!' Cal went after her, only to find his path blocked by the other person he least wanted to see at this precise moment in time.

'Is this some kind of joke?' Ethan asked, fury spilling out of every pore. 'How long have you known?'

A competition again. God, no wonder Fran hadn't wanted either of them to know. From somewhere, Cal pulled out a strand of maturity which would prevent him from descending into some kind of sniping match with his brother.

'That's really not the important thing right now.' Heavily, reluctantly, he gestured towards Ethan. 'Come on, we need to catch up with her.'

* * *

'Max, could you take Amber up to cardiology please? There's a bed waiting for her.' Ash gestured towards his patient. 'They'll take really good care of you, Amber.'

'Thanks Doctor Ashford.' The young woman smiled.

'I'll just get a wheelchair.' Max nodded. He'd been kept pretty busy for the past few minutes, fetching patients' notes and already having made two journeys upstairs with patients who had been transferred between wards. For him, it was a good thing, keeping him busy and keeping him away from Robyn who had made a bee-line for him each time he'd set foot in the department since the scene in the staff room. Now, if he could just locate a wheelchair and make a quick getaway…

'You stand still and you answer my question now.' His shoulders slumped as his step-sister caught up with him.

'I'm a bit busy at the moment actually-'

'You can answer one question!' Robyn snapped. She meant business. He reluctantly turned to face her. 'One question: is it yours? And don't even think about playing dumb.' Her eyes flashed furiously, as though this was some awful scrape he'd got them both into. He supposed it sort of was.

Max ran through all his options in his head but there wasn't much left for him other than to shrug his shoulders. 'I don't know.' Humour didn't seem entirely appropriate on this occasion.

'You don't know? Don't you think you should find out?'

'Yeah, I will.' He nodded, suddenly weary. 'I'll… catch up with her or something. Robyn, I'm really busy… Don't look at me like that.'

'Don't you want to know?'

Truthfully, no. If he asked the question, he might get an answer he didn't want and then there'd be decisions and choices to be made and that just wasn't how he worked. He'd made it this far in life by stumbling through and relying upon luck. He doubted that would go down well as a solution for Francesca Hardy.

'I need to do my job.' He knew how strange that sounded coming out of his mouth. It wasn't that he was usually work-shy, he just didn't always prioritise work above everything else. On this occasion, he was more than happy to run errands all over the hospital if it meant he could live in denial about what may or may not have happened that night all those weeks ago.

'Max!' Robyn put her foot down very literally in front of the wheelchair. 'Will you just man-up for one minute and go and ask her? Stop being such a little boy.'

'Shouting at me is not helping,' he muttered.

'You know what would help?' She gave him a pointed look, and he knew she was right, knew it so completely that he felt momentarily quite angry. This wasn't how that night was supposed to have turned out. It was supposed to have been forgotten about, a minor foothold on his way to dragging himself back into his normal life.

'You're not going to let this drop, are you?'

'Funnily enough, no.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Fine. I'll find her.' He gave the wheelchair a slightly harder push than was necessary and headed towards the door.

'Max?' Tess caught him at the door. 'Where are you going?'

'I've got something I need to do.'

'Now?'

'Yes. Sorry, Tess, I'll be… I'll be right back.' Having made his decision, he knew he had to stick by it; it was all too easy to back out otherwise.

* * *

'Fran! Fran, just slow down for a second!'

Francesca had no intention of obeying her brother's requests. _Either_ brother, she silently corrected herself, as she came to a halt at her car and glanced behind her to see both Ethan and Cal advancing. She was far too angry with Cal to quite trust herself right now. With Ethan, she was just too ashamed. And scared, she realised now, wondering how long it would be before her brother would suggest calling home. Or just doing it off of his own back; he had form for that.

'Fran, I'm sorry.'

Cal had asked for it now.

'Because that makes it all so much better, right?' she snapped, her keys refusing to leap straight from her bag into her hand and making everything seem five hundred times worse. 'Say sorry and you haven't somehow made me a laughing stock at work?'

'I didn't mean-'

She cut him off. 'But it still happened! You still shot your stupid mouth off just like always!' The keys finally made themselves known and she clutched them desperately, suddenly aware of the tears which could threaten to spill over at any moment. 'I trusted you, Cal!' Then her eyes slid onto Ethan, the reliable one, and she registered the hurt that she hadn't done just that with him. Yet more stupidity on her part in recent months.

'I need to go home,' she said now, clicking the car open and yanking the door open.

'I was trying to look after you,' Cal said finally, the same sort of fire which was flowing through Fran's veins lighting up his eyes. Times like these, she wondered where nature left off and nurture began: they'd inherited or caught this explosive anger from her father, the man who had practically brought Cal up as his own. It was almost like looking in a mirror. _Too_ much like looking in a mirror.

'I don't need looking after.'

'Really?' Ethan spoke for the first time.

Shame made her even snippier with him. 'Don't you start.'

'You're my sister,' Ethan reminded her, his voice louder than usual, and she couldn't help noticing he didn't say 'too', subtly but firmly cutting Cal out. She hated it when they did this. A strange thought struck her: _they're even using your baby as a weapon_. Then she firmly put the B-word out of her mind.

'That doesn't mean I have to tell you everything.'

'Telling me something like this would be nice though.' The quiet-anger of Ethan was something all together different from Cal's ferocity, and she dropped her gaze to the ground, an apology all but on her lips. 'How far gone are you?'

'A few weeks.' Then, after a pointed look from him, 'Nearly twelve weeks.'

'And you're keeping it?'

She shrugged awkwardly, reluctantly, remembering why Cal had seemed the easier option when it came to telling somebody. Ethan was so endlessly practical, basing his life around facts and figures. She'd always liked that about him, enjoyed the structure his way of living gave things. Why was she finding it so unappealing right now?

'Hadn't you better make a decision? What about the father?'

'He doesn't know.'

'At least I'm not the last to know then. When are you telling him?'

Her mind blanked again, just like it did whenever she started thinking about all of this. This was why she'd done all she could to forget about it, the scan appointment some mythical date in the diary, burying her head in patients' and her career. If she ignored it, it wasn't happening. That was the decision she'd made.

Then she could ignore it no longer.

'Is it mine?'

All three of them turned as one to look in the direction of the voice. After all their anger and veiled frustration, he was speaking calmly, curiously, waiting patiently for an answer. He was the complete antithesis of all of this angst, Fran realised. There was nothing simpler than Max Walker and his question.

Now Cal turned back to her, incredulity written all over his face. 'You have got be joking?'

'Fran?' Ethan asked.

Her eyes darted between her brothers, words drying up in her mouth. More lies sprang into her head, ridiculous lies, involving the sort of things they should know that their sister would never do. Her mind clouded over again, her thoughts unable to make themselves heard.

Until she met his eyes again. Steady, calming, looking back into hers without a flicker. The loyal Labrador. He was still waiting for an answer. She owed him that much.

She nodded slowly.

Cal let out a long exasperated sigh. Ethan looked skywards, as though somebody up there would make this better. Fran just looked at Max, who had never broken eye contact with her. He gave a small, decisive nod.

'Thanks for telling me.' Then he turned and walked away, and Fran had never felt more like calling after somebody. She didn't know why, but she felt as though she'd been shoved out into the cold. It wasn't a nice feeling.

She decided to fight fire with fire. Or, more accurately, ice with ice. Max wasn't the only one who could freeze people out.

'You need to get back to work,' she reminded her two brothers, before getting into her car and slamming the door shut. That neither of them so much as called out after her was, she thought, pretty telling. She left the car park with an uncharacteristic screech of tyres.

* * *

One advantage of the ED going into all but lockdown was the opportunity it afforded Max for more cigarette breaks than were strictly necessary. Ordinarily, this would have been a good thing and he would have thoroughly enjoyed it. Not that he didn't enjoy his job, but if he had to draw up a diagram of hierarchy, nicotine would almost always trump pushing trolleys and wheelchairs. Looked at like that, his family's insistence that being a porter was not a long term career choice was probably pretty accurate.

It was intensely unfair that, on this occasion, he was unable to really enjoy the illicit breaks. In fact, with his mind the way it was, he wasn't sure he wouldn't rather be pushing trolleys and wheelchairs. It would at least have prevented him from going over and over the past few months in his mind.

And it would have kept him out the way of Robyn for a bit longer.

'I've been looking all over for you!' she informed him as she rounded the corner of the building to find him leaning against the wall. 'Where have you been?'

He gestured around quite vaguely. 'Here, pretty much.' He took a long drag on his cigarette.

Robyn paused for all of about a millisecond before saying impatiently, 'And?'

'And what?'

'Don't play dumb!' Robyn growled. When he merely stared back at her, she prompted, 'The baby?'

This was what it was all going to be like after he spoke, Max realised. He'd spent his whole life being so wrapped up in himself, looking out for number one, a lone wolf as he'd heard Lofty describing him. Once he told Robyn what he'd found out, that would all change. He felt a sudden pathetic longing for home, _real_ home, in his single bed underneath the posters of Metallica and Ryan Giggs. He suddenly didn't feel like a grown-up anymore.

With a heavy sign, breathing out a plume of smoke, he closed his eyes and looked up to the sky. Then, in a small voice, he said, 'It's mine.'

Robyn slumped against the wall against him, as though his news had sapped all of the energy out of her. Max hadn't known she cared so much. Then, with a glance at his step-sister, he took that back, silently apologising for his private maligning of her. Robyn cared, he knew that much. She'd taken him in and found him a job and even did his washing on occasions, albeit with much grumbling and complaining. Despite sharing no DNA whatsoever, Robyn had turned out to be infinitely more reliable than his brother. Robyn cared.

'You idiot.'

He opened his eyes again. 'That's a bit harsh!'

'You've just got a girl pregnant – a girl you don't even _like_ that much!' Robyn spoke loudly and slowly and clearly, as though he was indeed a complete idiot. 'How exactly is that smart?'

'I don't _dis_ like her,' he said, aware how stubborn he sounded.

'Well she doesn't like you.' Robyn let out a long groan and gave him a not-unkind slap on the arm. 'When are you going to learn, Max?'

He resisted the urge to argue back: the way she was talking, it was as though he had a string of children all across the south west. That was patently untrue, and yet he could sort of see her point. Things had been on a bit of a downwards spiral for a while, and this was hardly bucking the trend. So he shrugged, a little immaturely and pathetically.

There was a long silence as he felt Robyn trying to process the situation. He took advantage of the lull to light up another cigarette, hoping she'd be too distracted by the rather larger crisis of his impending fatherhood to jump on his nicotine habit.

At length, she spoke. 'Is she keeping it?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you want her to?'

'I don't think I get a say, do I?'

'If she asked you! If she asked you for your opinion.'

Max privately thought that was highly unlikely; in his experience so far, the only opinion which really counted in Francesca's world was her own. 'I… haven't thought about it.'

'Well you better start thinking!' Robyn snapped, her patience wearing thin, and rightly so: his excuses sounded weak even to him. 'Jesus, Max, you're having a baby! You need to start thinking and stop being all James Dean about it!' Her exasperation led her to wrench the cigarette from his mouth and stub it out emphatically.

'Hey!'

'Don't push me,' she said darkly. 'Just don't.'

He didn't. Instead, he dropped his head and mumbled, 'I'm sorry.'

'And don't go all little-boy-lost on me. It doesn't work on me, Max.'

That was true. Kind as Robyn had always been to him, the charm and wit which worked on just about every female he wasn't related to just fell flat in her presence every time. He had a feeling it was why they got on so well: she was never taken in by his crap.

After another heavy sigh, she said, 'You need to talk to her. Find out what she's planning.'

'Maybe she's not planning anything.' Now that he thought about it, she hadn't seemed much like she'd had a plan when he'd seen her earlier. She'd seemed cornered and angry and scared. Somehow he found it hard to believe that having a plan would lead to you feeling like that.

'She's Francesca Hardy. Of course she's got a plan. And probably a spare for emergencies,' Robyn remarked drily. 'You need to know what she's going to do.'

'And then?'

'Then you make a plan.' Robyn shot a look at his face, and despite her words, her voice was much kinder when she said again, 'You're an idiot.'

He nodded his agreement, because right now, she was pretty spot on.

* * *

'You can stop looking at me like that.'

'Can I?' Ethan had just about kept a lid on his anger as the day had wound on. Things had been too busy and chaotic on the ward for him to risk taking his mind off of the job at hand. The fact that Cal had studiously kept clear of him, something nobody seemed inclined to hinder, had also helped. Sometimes, it was easier to remember that halcyon time before his whole family had descended upon Holby. They'd certainly been simpler days.

But he was damned if he was going to let both of his siblings get away quite so easily from today's debacle. Fran was long gone, and Ethan had only just realised quite how dramatic her exit had been; neither he nor Cal had her address. If she wanted to disappear, she could manage it without even blinking.

Which just left Cal.

'I've said I'm sorry.'

'And that undoes months of lies?'

'We didn't _lie_ to you! We just…'

'Didn't actually tell me the truth? Well, that's okay then.'

'You were ill, Ethan. Properly ill. We didn't want you worrying.'

'I've been back at work for over a month!' Ethan almost choked on the realisation. 'You've known since the accident?' The time between now and then seemed endless, a million years between the Ethan he'd been then and the one he was now. Cal's persistent presence in his flat since then was likely part of the problem, but Ethan wasn't naïve enough to believe that the accident itself hadn't had an impact upon him beyond the physical injuries. He somehow doubted he was over the worst of it yet. Even so, he hadn't expected Cal and Fran to conspire against him like this in the meantime.

'I only found out on the same day!' Cal said hastily. 'Honestly, Ethan, it was news to me too.'

Ethan tried to put himself in Cal's shoes for a moment, tried to think how he'd feel on a day when both of his siblings had tested him to the limit. He was grateful to Cal, of course he was; he'd saved his life, gratitude was sort of required. But right now his anger was outweighing any softer feelings he had about either of them.

'You've had ages to tell me.'

'It wasn't my secret to tell,' Cal said and the self-righteousness just about tipped Ethan over the edge.

'But you had no problem telling Connie Beauchamp and the whole department this afternoon?' Giving his brother a withering look, he said, 'I always thought Fran was smarter than this.'

'Getting pregnant?'

'Trusting you!'

'I'm not the one who's screwed up here, Ethan! You can't blame it all on me!'

'I'm not blaming anyone! I'm just…' Ethan had no idea what he was really saying. He wasn't sure who he was angry with, and for what. Cal had kept it a secret, but like he'd said, it wasn't his to tell, and Ethan wasn't certain that he wouldn't have hated his brother more for spilling something Fran had told him in confidence. Fran had kept a secret too, but one that Ethan wasn't convinced he even had a right to know anything about. She was twenty-seven, not the teenager he'd left behind when he went to medical school. She'd lived abroad and become so independent that in many ways he wasn't surprised that he wasn't the first person she'd picked the phone up to when this crisis had erupted in her life. What could he do to help anyway?

'Max has got a lot to answer for,' Cal said now, darkly.

Ethan raised his eyebrows. 'You're blaming him?'

'You saw the way he walked away from her today. He's got absolutely no intention of facing his responsibilities.'

'Are you listening to yourself?' Ethan demanded. 'He's just found out he got a one-night stand pregnant. Would you be thrilled?' Talking about his sister like that sort of helped; it detached the whole situation slightly, made it sound like he was talking about somebody else. It made it seem much more realistic, because Francesca getting unexpectedly pregnant was such a ridiculous suggestion that he hadn't even begun to process it yet.

With Cal silenced, Ethan was able to think straight. And he came up with only one conclusion.

'We need to tell Dad.'

'What? Why?'

'Because he'd want to know?' Ethan looked incredulously at his brother. 'That's his grand-child.'

'Okay, look, it's not even really a _child_ at the moment, let alone his grand-child.'

Ethan frowned. 'What are you saying?'

'I'm just saying… your dad might not ever need to know.'

'You think she's going to…?'

'You don't?'

Ethan didn't know what he thought. He hadn't prepared himself for ever needing to think about this. Was his sister pro-life or pro-choice? Professionally speaking, she had no right to have an opinion: her job was to provide facts if anybody requested them. Even advice was a step too far. Ethan sort of wished this was a professional matter, not an extremely personal one, because deciding whether Fran was open to abortions or not sort of called his own views into question, and he had no idea how he'd begin to answer that question.

Reluctant to begin a journey down that road of thought, he turned his irritation back upon his brother.

'So what are we supposed to do now, then?' When Cal looked at him questioningly, he went on. 'Are we supposed to just forget this has happened, ignore it? What are we supposed to tell Dad? Her mum?'

'If they ask whether their daughter has unexpectedly got herself knocked up?' Cal snorted. 'We just say nothing.'

'We lie?'

'It's not lying! It's just not saying anything.' Cal rolled his eyes. 'Seriously, Ethan, how have you got through life like this?'

'Perfectly well.' Ethan glowered at him.

Cal sighed heavily, and Ethan could see it was costing him some energy. He'd forgotten how Fran pushed Cal's buttons like this, pushed both their buttons if he was honest. The youngest child, the only girl, the apple of their father's eye. Of course she was going to have a claim over the both of them. Cal had always been her loyal slave, saying the things she was unable to, standing guard over her whenever she needed. In comparison, Ethan knew he'd taken a back seat as a brother. He was loathe to use the word 'bad', but he supposed Fran, at least the Fran she'd been at fifteen, might have seen it like that. Her choice of confidante on this occasion spoke volumes.

Cal's words summed up his relationship with her. 'We do whatever she wants us to do.'

'Including lying?'

'If it comes to it, yeah!' Cal shot him a desperate look. 'She's our sister, Ethan. We do what she wants.'

Ethan gave it some thought, but not for long. If anyone knew how to be a decent big brother, at least as far as Fran was concerned, it was Cal. It was ironic, but Ethan knew he could probably learn a lot from him. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a difficult ask: do whatever Francesca wanted them to do. Ethan could do that.

He didn't have a lot of choice.

* * *

 ** _Next Time: On My Own_**

 _Trying to make it sound as though she was doing Max a favour, Fran said, 'You don't need to worry about it.'_

 _'What does that mean?'_

 _She didn't really know. 'Just leave it. I'll… deal with it.'_

 _'And what does that mean?' Max looked more frustrated than she'd thought he was capable of. He was always the epitome of cool, laid-back, jovial. This had really got him wound up. She was partially pleased she wasn't the only one._

 _'It means… it's not your concern.'_

 _'It's my baby! Of course it's my concern!'_

* * *

Chapter title/lyrics come from 'Love will come through' by Travis.


	8. On My Own

**I need to slow down my updating and actually write some more! Thanks for all the reviews so far. As chapters go, this is quite slow though quite pivotal. Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

… _But only on my own._

Fran had a healthy respect for the NHS, despite her father's defection to the private sector. It had always served her well, both personally and professionally, and her time in the US had only re-affirmed her belief that safe, thorough medical treatment should be available to all, regardless of financial circumstances. It was the one thing she though the UK should be proud of above everything else: making life a right and not a privilege.

Even so, she'd been pleasantly surprised on waking up this morning to find her stomach no longer churning and her mouth no longer watering uncontrollably. When she'd read the advice online, she'd agreed that ' Nausea and vomiting in pregnancy, also known as morning sickness' was indeed 'unpleasant' but the suggestion that it usually cleared up 'between weeks 12 and 14 of pregnancy' had seemed a) highly improbably and b) a blatant lie told to keep people's spirits up. She didn't know when feeling so disgusting had become so routine, but it was only today, the day of her twelve-week scan, that she realised how horrible she'd been feeling. The NHS clearly did know its stuff.

It was the one good thing about waking up today. It had been three days since her last shift, the one she'd left early after a melodramatic shout-fest in the car park with her brothers and with Max. Three days filled with brooding and mooching around her flat by herself, carefully avoiding going too far outside of her neighbourhood. Not telling Ethan and Cal where she lived had really been an oversight, something she'd been sure would come up in conversation one day and so far hadn't. Now, she was pleased; she didn't want to speak to either of them until she had to. Cal had both texted and emailed her, his usual apologetic self; he was an expert at sorry through necessity. Ethan had been stonily silent, which didn't surprise her. He liked being face to face. Today was the day she'd have to deal with that.

She drove in with her music turned up even louder than usual, hoping it might block out the very real anxieties in her head. It was hugely unfair that today, the first day she'd not been sick for weeks, her stomach was now churning for a very different reason. She usually loved work, thrived on it, found it a comfort when everything else seemed to be going wrong. That she was dreading it today was something else she laid, possibly unfairly, firmly at the door of Max Walker, which didn't help much when he was the first person she laid eyes on as she got out of her car.

He dropped the cigarette he was smoking as she walked towards him, unable to avoid passing straight past him on her way in the door. If she'd been feeling more generous, she might have logged the dark circles underneath his eyes and the two-days'-worth of stubble growing on his face. Generosity was something she didn't have to spare though, so she did her best to ignore him.

But it was hard to ignore somebody when they stood directly in your path.

Lifting her head to meet his eyes, she tried her best to sound detached, calm, icy-cool. A lifetime of practice should have stood her in better stead for this. 'Excuse me.'

He looked startled by her cold tone, but stood his ground. Fran waited for less than a second before trying to side step him, something else he neatly negated by placing a hand firmly on her arm.

'We need to talk,' he said now, sounding like a daytime TV show. She wondered how long that opening had taken him to come up with, and whether it was irony or a sick joke that she was the one on the receiving end of this. Surely she was supposed to be the one trotting that hackneyed phrase out, being as she was the one with the massive problem caused by him.

Besides which, she'd already decided that this was something they most definitely did not need to talk about.

Max wasn't getting the message though, as she tried to slip out of his grasp and he tightened his hold.

'Francesca!'

'What?' She shook him off and glowered at him.

'Are we going to talk about this or not?'

'I'm late for work.' Not strictly true yet, but if she had this conversation with him now, she would be.

'That's not an answer.' There was a fire in him suddenly which she hadn't seen before. She'd seen persistence; it was his persistence which had led to this whole mess in the first place. But that had been playful, flirtatious even (though it had taken her until now to recognise it as that). This was something else, and she didn't much like it.

She left a deliberately long pause, leaving him hanging for her response. Then, calmly, coldly, she said, 'We agreed to forget about it.'

'No, we didn't. And that was before _this_ happened!' He gestured vaguely towards her abdomen, as though the past three days had seen a vast expansion in that area which Fran knew was patently untrue; she'd checked that very carefully in the mirror this morning. 'We can't just ignore _this_.'

Fran wondered how this conversation would end if she admitted she'd been doing something very much like that for the past few weeks. The appointment today hadn't even warranted an entry in her calendar. If she told him that, if she let him in, this could go in a whole other direction, and that terrified her. His opinion might change everything. She wasn't willing to risk it.

Trying to make it sound as though she was doing him a favour, she said, 'You don't need to worry about it.'

'What does that mean?'

She didn't really know. 'Just leave it. I'll… deal with it.'

'And what does _that_ mean?' Max looked more frustrated than she'd thought he was capable of. He was always the epitome of cool, laid-back, jovial. This had really got him wound up. She was partially pleased she wasn't the only one.

'It means… it's not your concern.'

'It's my _baby_! Of course it's my concern!'

It was that which flipped a switch for her, the word she'd carefully avoided using out loud, and usually in her head as well. 'It's not a baby! It's just… cells, just…' She ran out of words as she saw Max's reaction to the ones she'd found so far. It startled her to see how horrified he looked. Medically speaking, she was right, but then wasn't that all anybody was, regardless of age? Unspoken, it had sounded okay. Now it seemed it was very not-okay, and she couldn't do anything about that.

'So does that mean you're…?' he tailed off, words failing him as much as her. In response to her shrug, he managed, 'And you're just making that decision?'

'Who else is going to? You?' She saw the terror in his eyes and hated herself for what she did next. 'Go on then. You make it.' He'd instigated this conversation, he'd pushed her; he had to take the consequences of his actions.

Backed into a corner, his eyes had widened. 'We need to talk about this,' he tried again, falling back on his script.

'That's what we're doing,' she challenged him. 'So what do you want me to do?' When no reply immediately came, she found her earlier confidence returning, knowing she had the upper hand here. 'Come on. Make a choice.'

She waited. And waited. She waited longer than she thought she could, suddenly finding she was willing him to say something, anything, to take some of this heavy burden off of her shoulders. She wanted him to surprise her.

She didn't think she'd ever been quite so disappointed before.

Breaking the silence, she nodded. 'Right. I thought not.' He seemed about to protest, and she held up her hand. 'Just… forget it. I'll take care of it.'

By the time she reached the staffroom, her nausea had returned.

* * *

'Is this some sort of joke?' Louise took the words out of Max's mouth, which he was pleased about because he wasn't sure they'd have been so polite if he'd said them. The look of disgust on her face summed up his feelings too, although he suspected that his might be fuelled by something more substantial than the Santa hat she was holding gingerly between thumb and forefinger, as though it had been somewhere she most definitely didn't want to associate herself with.

'It's a hat,' Rita deadpanned, as she handed one to Noel as well.

'I can see that.' Louise turned it around in her hand. 'I don't see what you want me to do with it, because no way in hell am I wearing it.'

'Oh come on!' Noel was cajoling her now, his hat already on his head. 'It's Christmas!'

Louise looked him up and down slowly. Then she turned back to Rita. 'I won't be wearing one.'

Rita gave a deep sigh, and Max felt momentarily sorry for her. It had only been a few weeks since she'd been promoted to her new role as senior staff nurse in the department, and only a few months before her life had imploded in front of the whole staff when her supposedly-dead husband had appeared in handcuffs. That she was so cheerfully setting about decorating the department to try to make it less austere was to be admired, even if her method of decorating involved the staff too much.

His sympathy must have registered too visibly on his face, as Rita immediately thrust one in his direction.

'You'll wear one, won't you, Max?'

'Oh, I don't know.' He took a step backwards. 'Isn't it a bit early?'

'There's only ten days until Christmas!' Rita exclaimed. 'Go on!'

Ten days, and he was feeling possibly the least festive he ever had. 'Sorry.' He shook his head and turned away.

'Mystery woman trouble,' Noel said with authority. Max wondered how they'd all respond if he filled them in on exactly the trouble he was having; that would really give Francesca something to snipe about. He didn't quite have it in him to be that underhand though, so he continued walking to cubicles, for once hoping Tess had something to keep him busy. He'd even chase up bedpans if it meant he didn't have to bump into Francesca, her brothers or Robyn for the foreseeable future.

It wasn't very often his wishes came true, and in a much less unpleasant way than he might have expected.

'Max!' Tess greeted him as if he'd been AWOL; perhaps that was the only tone which sprang to mind when she saw him, given that he was often missing just when she wanted him. 'I need you to take a patient to x-ray.'

'Sure. I'll get a wheelchair.'

The patient turned out to be twelve-year-old Jacob, a visibly trembling boy with a suspected fractured arm. His parents had yet to arrive following his arrival by ambulance after he'd fallen off his bike on the way to school. A passer-by had called 999 and here Jacob was, just about not crying because twelve-year-olds didn't cry.

'Max will take good care of you, and we'll see you in a little while,' Tess promised him.

'Okay, let's go.' Max mustered up some energy. Whatever was going on inside of his head, Jacob wasn't responsible. 'Where's your mum?'

'I live with my dad.'

Of course. It was going to be one of those days. 'So where's he?'

'Work. He's always at work.'

'What does he do?'

'He sells cars.'

'Cool.'

The boy twisted round to look Max in the eye. 'Is it?'

'I'd have loved it if my dad sold cars when I was your age! What sort of cars does he sell?'

Jacob shrugged. 'Cars.'

Tough audience. Ordinarily Max could shoot the breeze with anybody and everybody who came through those doors. He was well-aware that being a porter wasn't highly-skilled, but he was certain that he was good at it, if only for his aptitude for talking. People underestimated the need for talking in hospitals; in Max's experience, it was all some people needed to feel better.

Conversation was always easier side by side, and Max had the perfect come-back ready when they reached x-ray to find there was, inevitably, a wait.

Sitting beside the wheelchair, he said, 'So what makes bikes better than cars?'

Bingo. Jacob gave him an incredulous look, as if it was the most ludicrous question he'd ever been asked. 'Are you serious? Have you seen the things you can do on a bike?'

'Ride it?'

The withering look Jacob delivered was spectacular. 'Have you never heard of Kyle Bennett?' Max shrugged and shook his head; if being able to talk about anything was a key skill of being a porter, another was the ability to listen. 'He was world champion three times. And he was killed in a car.'

'Unlucky.'

'No, it's ironic!' It really wasn't, but Max let that one go. 'People always act like BMX is so dangerous, but do you know how many people die in cars every year?'

'Too many.' Max closed the conversation down; dying in car crashes was a topic too close for comfort since Jeff's death. 'So you're into BMX then?'

It was the key which unlocked the door. From the surly pre-teen he'd picked up in the ED, Jacob became a chatty animated young boy again, thoroughly likeable. By the time he'd been x-rayed and they were on their way back down the corridors, Max felt marginally cheered up by the boy's enthusiasm. Jacob's own mood was improved even further when his dad was there to meet him on their return. Everything was coming up Walker.

'Okay, Jacob Brown?' The cubicle curtain was pulled back before Max had the opportunity to escape. One look at the unruffled surface of Francesca Hardy and his mood was sent in a very different direction again. In contrast, she barely acknowledged him, her mind entirely fixed on the job at hand. He might have admired that ordinarily, a single-mindedness he could only dream of in his own life. Given the conversation they'd had that morning (if it counted as a conversation; she'd not listened to a word he said and he'd always thought listening was a major part of conversation), he couldn't see much to admire in her today.

Still, Jacob didn't need to know that. Whatever Max's personal feelings towards her, Doctor Hardy was good at her job.

'I'll leave you to it then,' he said now, folding the wheelchair up. 'You'll be back on your bike before you know it. Unless you need me for anything?' He didn't know where that came from. It was as if he was daring Francesca to blow him off twice in one day.

She didn't even hesitate. 'We'll be fine.'

He controlled his anger until he got outside the hospital. With his hoodie pulled up over his uniform, he hoped most people walking past wouldn't associate the sweary man with the hospital. He didn't need a disciplinary on top of everything else.

* * *

Science told Ethan that what he was thinking was impossible. He'd last seen Fran three days ago. It was impossible for her to have changed so much in that time. He knew it was merely a case of him now being aware of her pregnancy and interpreting everything through that filter. It was impossible for her to have put on weight, for her skin to have taken on a new radiance, for her hair to seem thicker and shinier. Yet that was what his brain was telling him and he very rarely argued with his brain.

The last time he'd seen Fran hadn't gone well. Pursuing her across the car park as in a daytime soap storyline had been a very poor decision on his part, fuelled purely by his shock at the news Cal had delivered so very badly. He'd had three days to think about how to approach his sister this time and was going to make a better job of it.

More than half the morning had gone by before he found the perfect opportunity to corner Fran. Walking away from him would cause a bigger stir than listening to what he had to say, so he picked his moment and sidled up to her whilst she was filling in some paperwork.

'How are you?'

'Fine.' She didn't look up from her work.

Ethan readjusted his glasses. Even if her pregnancy could have miraculously changed her physicality in a matter of days, it wasn't doing anything to her personality - or at least, nothing positive. He had an idea she might be even more irritable than usual. It was best to tread carefully.

'Is everything… okay?'

'Fine.'

Clenching his jaw, trying not to allow the tension he was feeling to creep into his voice, he said, 'You didn't answer any of my calls.'

'I was busy.'

'You could have answered one, Fran. Just to say you were alright.'

'Why wouldn't I have been?' She lifted her head up and shot him a look, daring him to say what he knew she'd hate.

'You were upset the other day.'

'I was fine.' In response to his exhalation of irritation, she said, 'Look, Ethan, I don't have time for this right now, I've got loads to do before…' Tailing off, she dropped her gaze to the pages in front of her.

'Before what?'

Reluctantly, grudgingly, she said, 'I've… got a scan today.' Then she opened up another file as though she'd said the most normal thing in the world.

'Oh. Right.' Ethan blinked and adjusted his glasses again. 'Do you… do you want one of us to come with you or…?'

'No.'

He didn't know why he'd expected anything different from her. Fran didn't do reliance upon anybody except herself; maybe it was a secret she'd learned in those long lonely months at Lannister House. Ethan didn't know.

An awkward pause, and then he tried again. 'So do you want to come round after work? I could cook.'

'No thank you.'

Fran!' Exasperation made him unable to keep a lid on himself any longer and the price he paid was her standing up and sweeping all of her paperwork together.

'I'm not ill! All I want is to get through today, go home and go back to bed! Is that too much to ask?'

'Francesca.' Both Ethan and Fran tensed up as the icy tones of their boss cut into their conversation. Turning as one, they looked at where Connie Beauchamp was seemingly casually scrolling through images on a tablet. 'I'd be grateful if you could come to my office before you go home tonight. Alright?'

'Of course.' Fran nodded, instantly cowed in the presence of someone with more authority than her. It was the same ducking down Ethan had seen from her over and over again whenever their father had laid the law down in their house. It was the only time he'd ever seen her less than sure of herself.

'Make sure you do.' Connie nodded, sweeping away like the royalty she was.

Fran shot Ethan a look which spoke a thousand words, before scurrying away herself, leaving him in no doubt that his sister was very far from fine.

* * *

Fran knew the basics of the ultrasound scan from when she'd been on rotation on a maternity unit. She knew the science behind it and how it was safe for both mother and baby. She also knew its limitations, how it couldn't tell you everything you might want to know. It certainly wouldn't be able to provide her with a solution to the problem she had and that was all she needed right now.

So she sat more or less silently whilst the sonographer talked her through the procedure; she didn't flinch when the cold gel was placed on her abdomen. Briefly, somewhere inside her quagmire of the brain, she wondered how different this would be if she had made a decision. In the waiting room, she'd seen couples holding hands, women idly leafing through magazines as though this was a place and event they were entirely comfortable with. Fran wasn't sure how to get to that state of mind.

'Here we are,' the sonographer said, her voice gratingly upbeat. 'Here's baby.'

Despite herself, Fran looked at the screen, refraining from insisting it wasn't a baby, not yet, because that had gone down so badly with Max that morning. She'd seen baby scans before and never been able to make much of them. There was modern art which was less abstract. Therefore, she wasn't surprised when all she could see was a mass of grey and black shapes.

And then it moved.

She knew she should have been prepared for that. Life equaled movement, and life technically started at the moment of conception, so this bundle of cells inside of her had had more than enough time to practice being alive. Vaguely, she'd known it would be moving around, but had ignored it because she found it too unsettling as a concept. Now it was right in front of her, it was much harder to ignore.

'I need to take a few measurements,' the sonographer explained, freezing the screen. 'It won't take too long. How far gone do you think you are?'

'Twelve weeks.' Fran took a moment and then added, 'And three days.'

'Very… precise.' The sonographer's raised eyebrows were testament to how much Fran had just overshared. She'd always though being precise, especially when it came to medical matters, was useful. Now she just felt embarrassed and lapsed into silence, her eyes drawn once again to the scan in front of her. Frozen, it had faded into a meaningless series of blobs again.

'Twelve weeks.' The sonographer nodded slowly. 'That would put your due date as June twelfth. You'll need to come in again in early February for your twenty-week-scan, make sure you make an appointment for that before you leave today.' She was scribbling things down as she spoke, something Fran was impressed by. 'You'll be able to find out the baby's sex at that scan if you'd like to know. Would you like to take a picture away with you today?'

Fran's eyes darted from the screen to the sonographer and back again. 'No…' She shook her head as adamantly as she could. 'No thank you.'

'It's no trouble.'

'Honestly. No.' She shook herself back into normal mode. 'Is it finished?' Assuming it was, she was already rolling her top back down, ignoring the sticky gel still on her stomach. 'Is there anything else you need?'

'No…' The sonographer's suspicion couldn't be hidden now. 'I'll make sure your midwife gets these notes; make sure you make an appointment in the next couple of weeks to discuss your care.'

Fran nodded and murmured assent as she was given a pack of leaflets and brochures before bolting for the doorway. She deliberately avoided eye-contact as she left the waiting area and made a beeline for the toilets. Her excuse was that she'd drunk almost a litre of water on the advice of several websites which claimed the scan was more successful on a full bladder.

It didn't explain why she sat in the cubicle for far longer than was necessary with her hand on her stomach. It was the strangest feeling, to know that something was alive inside of her, wriggling around and she wasn't even aware of it. Until today, it had been a collection of cells, a mistake, a hindrance. Now it was an actual thing, and that made it all so much more complicated.

Sooner or later, when people talked about doctors, they mentioned the Hippocratic Oath. Fran wasn't convinced most people even knew what they were speaking of when they did that. She was certainly sure that virtually nobody had read the full document, albeit translated from the Greek. In it were pledges to long-defunct Greek gods and references to visiting patients in their houses which had no relevance to her job as she lived it day to day. Indeed, when it came down to it, it appeared most people weren't referring to the Hippocratic Oath at all, but to a Latin phrase, _primum non nocere_ : first, do no harm.

It was, Fran thought, a wise maxim to practise medicine by. Not without its problems, obviously, as rarely a day went by when she didn't wonder who she wasn't supposed to be causing harm to. But as rules went, it was a very clear, neat, simple one. She liked rules like that.

It certainly made her decision easier when she stepped inside Connie Beauchamp's office at the end of her shift. The last time she'd stood here, she'd been on the receiving end of a verbal warning. She was reasonably certain that she couldn't get a follow-up written warning for being pregnant; there was almost certainly legislation against that. Even so, the atmosphere in the office was almost as frosty as the day Mr Hyde almost died. Apparently having a cavalier attitude towards birth control was as dubious as neglecting to read patients' notes properly.

'I presume the scan went well.'

Fran nodded, because it hadn't gone badly. It had been entirely vanilla.

Mrs Beauchamp rifled through some papers on her desk. When she spoke, it was with studied casual disinterest, which suited Fran fine; she didn't want to have a heart-to-heart about this.

'Any decisions you make about your situation are, of course, your own business. We do have some responsibilities towards your welfare, though, as well as that of the child. HR require me to make your aware of their services and to pass on this literature.' She handed over yet more pamphlets which Fran suspected she would ultimately file under 'B' for 'bin'. Then, unexpectedly, Connie added, 'Completely useless, I'm sure, unless they've been radically updated since I was given them.'

She moved on before Fran could really register what she was saying. 'And ultimately, should you make that decision, we'll obviously have to make arrangements for your maternity leave. Your entitlements are listed in one of those documents.'

Fran stared down at them and gave one slow nod of understanding. They looked infinitely more official and boring than the primary-coloured pamphlets she'd received from upstairs. That was comforting in itself.

'How are you?' The question was unexpected; Mrs Beauchamp didn't tend to take an interest in staff well-being.

'Okay.' Fran regarded her suspiciously, wondering how deeply she'd probe.

'Good. I'll see you tomorrow then.'

The meeting had been brief and efficient and everything Fran usually liked in these things. She'd had to input the absolute minimum and nobody had delved too deep. Her escape was good.

She had no idea why was she turning back around and why her mouth was opening.

'I'm going to have the baby adopted.'

Mrs Beauchamp looked up from the paperwork scattered across her desk. Her face said that she wasn't sure why Fran was sharing this with her, and truthfully Fran wasn't sure why. She didn't usually share things with anybody, let alone her boss, and certainly not with a boss like Connie. There were at least five people she should probably be sharing this with before the clinical lead, and yet here was where it had fallen from her mouth. Somehow, she didn't know quite why, she thought she might be the one person who understood.

'I'm sure your midwife will be able to help you with that decision.'

As brush-offs went, it was pretty effective. Fran understood. She wouldn't want to be involved in someone else's drama either. She closed the door behind her as she left.

* * *

'She's avoiding you too?'

Cal looked up from his phone screen to find Ethan peering over his shoulder at the text he was composing – the fifth today.

Irritably, he swatted his brother away and thrust his phone into his pocket. 'She's not avoiding me. She's just….'

'Busy? Yeah, she used that one on me too.'

Cal narrowed his eyes as he looked at Ethan. 'Are you _enjoying_ this?'

Ethan at least had the good grace to look a little shame-faced. 'No. I was hoping she'd spoken to you, actually.'

'Me?'

'You're the one she always talks to.' Ethan shrugged, and Cal felt himself relenting; he was worried about Fran, and that was usually a good way into Cal's heart. Besides, he was acknowledging his older brother's superior status: Cal liked that.

Except it wasn't quite true this time. From the way Ethan was talking, it seemed as though he'd had least had a conversation with his sister today, which was something Cal himself hadn't managed. Each time he'd set out to find her, he'd been dragged into another cubicle or consulted for his opinion (something Doctor Chao never normally did and he didn't know why she'd picked today to break the habits of a lifetime) or Fran had ingeniously given him the slip. By the time he'd clocked off tonight, he'd been left in absolutely no doubt that he was in her bad books, and he wasn't entirely sure what he could do to rectify the situation.

So he'd followed the only model he had for getting somebody's attention. This was the behaviour the various girls he'd let down not-so-gently liked to exhibit, filling up his inbox with innocuous texts and inane voicemails. Given Fran's penchant for self-reliance, he was probably going about this entirely wrong. That he was even thinking like this about his own sister said more about their relationship than he really wanted to think about.

'But she's not talking to you, is she?'

Cal, reluctantly, had to shake his head, admitting defeat.

With a sigh, Ethan leaned back against the wall beside him. 'She had a scan today.'

'A what?

'A scan. You know, an ultrasound scan.'

Cal knew, but it didn't make it sound any more likely. Ultrasound scans and midwife's appointments were a whole other realm of grown-up to him, and a different world entirely from the one he'd always assumed Fran existed within. She'd never shown any particular interest in children or having a family. With her, as with all of them, the career had been the thing.

'Was it… okay?'

Ethan shrugged. 'She didn't speak to me afterwards.' Then, after a pause, 'I know you think we shouldn't but-'

'No.'

'I'm just suggesting-'

'No! We're not telling your dad!' Cal was adamant on this point. 'We can… deal with this ourselves.'

'Can we?' Implicit in his question was doubt over their ability to work together. It was something which had never gone well before and they had no reason to expect it would change in the future, especially where Fran was concerned. 'She won't even speak to us.'

Cal tried not to get angry with his brother for his fatalistic attitude; he couldn't afford to have both siblings not speaking to him. This perhaps explained Ethan's unsuccessful love life, if he gave up so easily at the first sign of trouble. For somebody so tenacious at work, he was pretty passive in his private life.

'She'll calm down.'

'Will she? What is she even going to do for Christmas?'

'That's weeks away!'

'When she'll be what? Nearly four months pregnant?' Ethan raised his eyebrows. 'You're really saying her mum won't notice that? And don't say maybe she won't get that far,' he insisted now. 'That's not an answer.'

Cal wondered how his brother's head didn't explode with all of these anxieties locked away inside of it. There must be yards of timelines winding their way around the inside of his skull, ready to trip him up and tie him up and waste his time on worries. He knew that Ethan (and, by extension, Ethan's dad) thought his penchant for diving in without thinking it through was immature and not a little dangerous, but he wasn't convinced that Ethan's thinking fifteen steps ahead wasn't more harmful in the long run.

Maybe there was space for a happy medium though. Left to his own devices, Cal would let Fran trundle on, unquestioned, unchecked, entirely alone, just like she always wanted. She liked being independent, something Cal always allowed her to be. It was why she'd always liked him better, he thought: he demanded less of her time and effort than Ethan did, with his insistence upon face-to-face contact in lieu of dashed off emails and texts. Maybe he had something there. If they turned up on her doorstep now, he doubted even Fran would have the wherewithal to be able to ignore them, whilst his messages were all too easy to leave unanswered.

And maybe Cal's devil-may-care attitude wasn't the right one on this occasion. Standing by whilst his baby sister went through what would be the scariest journey of her life wasn't the behaviour of a good big brother. Perhaps Ethan had it right.

Sighing heavily, he said, 'Okay. So… we'll talk to her.'

'When?'

Pushed, he managed, 'I don't know. This weekend? I'll… invite her round for… dinner.'

Ethan threw him a doubtful look. 'You don't cook.'

'Okay, so _you_ invite her round!'

'Sunday?'

'Sunday.'

Ethan nodded. 'I'll invite her.'

* * *

 ** _Next time: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_**

 _'Francesca,' Charlie said as she appeared, with what sounded a little like relief in his voice. It had been a while since she'd heard that particular sound._

 _Briskly, she said, 'Mrs Beauchamp wants me to take a look at the boy. From the RTC.'_

 _'His name's Danny,' Charlie filled her in as he led the way. 'I think he needs an x-ray on his leg, but there doesn't seem to be much damage done to him overall. I mean… he is rather distressed as you might be able to imagine…' He tailed off and gave her an indirectly pointed look. 'Go easy on him.'_

 _Fran didn't dignify that with a response as she tugged the curtain back. 'Danny?' she said, not waiting for a response from the blond-haired boy on the bed. 'I'm Doctor Hardy. Could you tell me where it hurts?'_

* * *

Song title/lyrics from 'On My Own' from the Les Miserables soundtrack


	9. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**A highly seasonal chapter today! It's a long one, so make sure you have snacks on hand and try not to dislike Fran too much.**

* * *

 _'Through the years we all will be together, if the Fates allow. Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now.'_

Ethan knew he wasn't imagining the look of surprise and confusion on his sister's face when she walked into his flat and found both her brothers waiting for her in the kitchen. He could virtually see her mind ticking over, working at lightning speed, putting together all the evidence in front of her and coming up with…

'What is this?' Her eyes flew from one brother to another, looking for an explanation. 'Because the last time you two sat down to dinner together voluntarily we were still in school uniform.'

Ethan met Cal's eye reluctantly, knowing she was right. To say this was an entirely voluntary exercise was stretching the word a little far, but it had certainly been a decision he'd made which Cal hadn't completely disagreed with. That was something, he supposed: their little sister's illegitimate pregnancy had at least afforded them some tiny opportunities not to be at each other's throats.

When it became clear that Cal wasn't going to take the lead on this, though, Ethan spoke up. 'We wanted to talk to you.'

'And this couldn't have been done at work? You know, where we actually see each other all the time?' Again, she glanced between them. When no response was forthcoming, she raised her eyebrows. 'Wow.'

Ethan shot his brother a look. True, this had been his idea, but it didn't mean that Ethan had to carry the whole conversation. That it had taken Fran this long to work out that this wasn't an entirely innocent gesture was, Ethan thought, testament to how much her head wasn't entirely with it at the moment. It was basically a sign that this whole intervention was necessary, although he suspected that she wouldn't like that evidence much. He was running out of niceties.

Cal rolled his eyes; Ethan was really getting sick of that facial expression. 'We were thinking about Christmas.' Fran raised her eyebrows again. 'And going home?'

'Oh. I'm not going home for Christmas.'

'What?' Ethan broke in.

'I'm not going home for Christmas. Is it so weird?'

'What are you going to do instead?'

'Work?'

'When did you decide that?'

'A few weeks ago. I didn't know I had to ask your permission.' Fran snorted. 'Honestly, it's not that strange. People need doctors over Christmas too.'

Ethan knew that; he'd worked his fair share of festive shifts in the past. This was the first year he was actually going to have the full Christmas off, returning to Holby for the New Year shifts. He'd even been known to volunteer for shifts in the past. It shouldn't be taking him this much by surprise.

'But,' he began again now, 'you're going to stay… on your own?'

'I'm twenty-seven, Ethan. I think I can stay in my own flat on my own at Christmas.' When neither of them said anything, Fran rolled her eyes. 'Look, I can hardly just show up at home like _this_ , can I?' She gestured towards her modest but admittedly growing bump. 'So what other choice do I have?'

'You could… tell them.' Ethan shrugged, even as he knew how ridiculous that sounded.

'Tell them I'm pregnant from a one-night stand and I'm giving the baby away as soon as it's born? Is that before or after Dad carves the turkey?'

Yes, definitely ridiculous sounding. That was partially Fran's own fault, of course: if she'd told their parents back when she'd first found out it might make this Christmas a slightly more feasible prospect.

'So what are you going to do then, hide away down here until the baby's born?' Cal's frustration was clear in his voice.

'I'm not hiding, I'm _working_. It's only until June. I've been away for longer before.' She shrugged. 'I'll visit them for Dad's birthday.'

The short silence that followed her words gave Ethan the opportunity to pursue something she'd said before. 'So you've decided then? You're having the baby adopted?'

She nodded, alarmingly casually, and he didn't know why that bothered him so much. He supposed it was the finality of it all: adoptions weren't reversible. Of course, it was her decision, but he wished she hadn't made all these decisions herself. He wished she'd spoken to her mum first. Claire was about the only person who ever seemed to get onto her daughter's wavelength and break down some of the walls around her. She'd be making a much better job of this than they were.

Tentatively, he raised the name nobody had mentioned in what felt like forever. 'And what about Max?'

'What about him?'

'Doesn't he get a say?'

'It doesn't concern him.'

She was right, of course; legally speaking, he had no rights to insist she had or didn't have the baby, a woman's ownership of her own body being of ultimate importance. And Ethan wasn't so sure that Max Walker, seemingly-eternal student, would make much better decisions than Fran anyway. There'd never been any outward sign that he was particularly adept at that skill. Yet Ethan kept wondering how he'd feel if he was Max, and he didn't much like that sensation.

Cal had stayed silent for an unusually long time. He normally had an opinion on everything, even things he didn't need to have an opinion on. Trust him to fall silent exactly when his input might actually be useful. Ethan found he was almost grateful when their older brother roused himself.

'Okay, so… if you're staying here for Christmas… I will too.'

'No! You can't!'

'Why not?' Cal demanded. 'Where else am I supposed to be?'

Even Fran fell silent at that, and Ethan dropped his gaze deliberately to the floor. Much as his older brother frustrated him, he didn't like to think about how sad that statement was. With their mother gone and Cal's father MIA since Cal was eight, he really didn't have any place special to be. Staying in Holby was more reasonable for him than for any of them.

That didn't stop Ethan's next words. 'We could all stay…'

'Nobody's staying!' Fran groaned. 'If we all stay, they'll just bring Christmas to us. You know what my mum's like.' Ethan did; crazy as it sounded, if your dad had to walk out on your mum for another woman, Ethan was just pleased it had been Fran's mum. The welcome she'd extended to all of them, even Cal, was more than anybody could have expected. Ethan would never have told the others, but Claire had been one of the few people he'd turned to since his own mother's death.

Fran definitely got most of her personality from their father though. Speaking firmly, channelling the no-nonsense approach she employed at work, she said, 'I've made a decision, we're sticking with it, just forget it.' In the tiny moment of silence which followed her edict, she said, 'Now, are we actually having dinner or have I got to go home to my cold empty flat and cook for myself?'

Defeated, Ethan gestured vaguely towards the oven. 'I could… put something together.'

'Good.' Fran nodded. 'Cal can help you.'

The two brothers looked at each other doubtfully as she left the kitchen, aware just how much they'd failed.

* * *

'It's the Christmas shift,' Rita said decisively and firmly. 'You are definitely wearing a hat.' As if to finalise her pronouncement, she thrust it none too gently onto Max's head. 'We're all wearing them,' she informed him as he began to protest. 'So don't.'

'I… wouldn't dream of it,' he said, backing down slightly. One glance at Lofty suggested that the hat did nobody any favours. 'I assume you'll be giving Mrs Beauchamp hers…? No?'

Rita gave him a withering look before moving on to the reception desk. With Louise not working, Noel was an easy sell on the festive attire. Max wondered how long before he could take his off; it was quite hot enough in the department already without a Santa hat on.

Then he wondered when he'd become so miserable. It was Christmas, for goodness sake, even if he was at work. He was far from the only person to be working today and if anything should distract him from his self-pity, it was working in an ED on Christmas Day. The people coming through those doors were having far worse days than he was. Anyway, the alternative was a family Christmas at his mother and step-father's house, which was always an occasion fraught with difficulties. Robyn was taking that particular bullet this year and he expected his phone would be burning up with snide texts as she fell out with his mother, her father and her own sisters. On reflection, he wasn't sure he wouldn't rather be here, emptying bedpans and pushing wheelchairs. There was probably more goodwill here than anywhere else.

He hadn't quite managed to find his own Christmas spirit yet this year. He'd hunted for it, helped it along with spirits of an all-together different nature, but it was lacking. He was mostly glad that the season would soon be over and he could slump back into the doldrums he'd been languishing in for what felt like months. Ever since Zoe left, if he was accurate.

Today was also a momentous occasion for another reason. He had no idea if it was by design or by coincidence, but he and Francesca hadn't shared a shift since the day she'd done her best to cut him out of her life. She'd been pretty successful so far, and Ethan and Cal had been sufficiently stand-offish enough to prevent him gaining much information from them either. The most he'd managed to glean was that she was okay (from Ethan) and that it was none of his business (from Cal). Max wasn't sure where all of them quite got off on insisting that the existence of his child was none of his business. It seemed illogical to him.

Robyn had given him a parting pep talk before she departed for home. He wasn't sure whether she was meaning to be kind and supportive, or to deliver yet another telling off for his behaviour. He'd been ticked off so often in the past few weeks that he felt about fourteen again.

'You need to know what she's planning,' she said as she wrapped up the presents he'd bought. The wrapping was sloppy and Max had a suspicion he could have done it better himself, but it was the first nice thing she'd done for him since Francesca's reluctant announcement so he was keeping quiet. 'And then you need to make decisions yourself.'

'Yeah, okay,' he agreed, a little irritably as this was the same script she'd been trotting out for several days now.

'So make sure you do it!' His step-sister glared at him. 'Stop pussy-footing around her, she's not flammable. She's not going to explode!'

'At least, not literally,' he muttered.

'Max!'

His sullen attitude whenever Francesca's name had been brought into conversation (which was alarmingly often; her surprise pregnancy had provided amazing fodder for the hospital gossips) was, he knew, purely because he was uneasy with the whole idea. Even thinking about the conversation he needed to have with her made him feel like he never really wanted to talk again.

All of this resulted in his beginning his Christmas Day shift with less than a merry heart and a happy song. Rita's attempts to jolly the department along were admirable, and almost succeeding, but there was nothing which could quite dampen his anxiety as he waited for Francesca Hardy's arrival.

* * *

Even as she spoke, Fran knew she was basically the epitome of Scrooge, alive and well in twenty-first century England. It wouldn't kill her to wear the hat that Rita was holding out to her. It really wouldn't. It wouldn't affect her ability to do her job and it might do something to bridge the chasm which was widening every day between her and her colleagues.

'No thank you.' She managed a small, inoffensive smile, before picking up the file Noel had left on the desk for her.

'Everybody's wearing them.' Rita stepped deliberately into her path.

Fran bit back several sarcastic comments; she didn't expect that Mrs Beauchamp would be sporting a Santa hat, nor Doctor Ashford. Nor Doctor Chao now she thought about. Even Cal would have had reservations about it.

Trying to be polite, she said, 'I don't wear costumes. Thank you.' Then, sidestepping Rita, she headed back into the department.

'Francesca.' The imperial voice of Connie called her back. 'Major RTC on its way in. We need you in resus.'

Turning around, Fran's suspicions were confirmed to be accurate: no ridiculous festive headwear for her boss. She nodded and handed the notes back to Noel: Mrs De Luca with the turkey-related burn would have to wait.

'We've got three casualties on their way in. One is a minor,' Connie briefed the team. 'Ash and Lily, you'll take the first. Francesca, you'll be working with me.'

Francesca wondered if that was a privilege or a way of ensuring she didn't make any more mistakes. The past few weeks had been somewhat of a rollercoaster where her professional skills were concerned. She thought she was just about in Mrs Beauchamp's good books again, even with the unplanned pregnancy. Even so, it was time to impress her.

To an outsider, a standard resus would look like chaos much of the time. As soon as Ash and Lily collected their first patient from the ambulance, there was noise and fuss, orders and instructions barked out from person to person, the squeal of various machines as they were put into use. Yet there was a pattern to it, a reassuring rhythm which Fran loved. She certainly wasn't envious of Cal and Ethan's Christmas; at least this lifted her outside of her own head and gave her something else to focus upon.

Shortly after the first admission, a second ambulance pulled up.

'What have we got?' Connie asked as the ambulance doors swung open.

'Thirty-three-year-old female, passenger in an RTC. Unconscious at the scene. Pulse is weak. We've given one-hundred-millimetres of saline. No external injuries beyond a bruise on her head.' Iain Dean reeled off the information without hesitation as they guided the trolley off of the ambulance and through the corridors to resus. 'Her husband was brought in ahead of her, her son's still to follow. We've identified her as a Hannah Thomas.'

'Cross match bloods,' Connie immediately directed Rita. 'We'll worry about next-of-kin later.'

'Let's get her across,' Iain said. 'On my count. One two three.' Like a well-oiled machine, they slipped the patient across.

'I'd hazard a guess at a bleed on the brain,' Connie said, listening the woman's chest with her stethoscope. 'Can we ask theatre to be on stand-by?'

Fran went about her business, checking the woman over methodically for any injuries or suspicious symptoms. It was surprising how often car crash patients came in entirely unscathed apart from the fact that they couldn't be roused into consciousness. The human body was a marvellous thing, protecting itself from all manner of injuries, shutting down as a method of survival. Sometimes, though, it worked against them. There was certainly no obvious cause for the woman's condition right now.

'Can we get an MRI scan organised please, see what we're dealing with?' Connie continued to issue demands. 'Francesca?'

'No injury.'

'Let's make that an urgent MRI scan. I'm going to meet the child, I'll be back.'

For a few minutes, Fran did what she was good at: her job. Without the MRI, she was limited on the treatment she could give the woman, but she gave her the medication she could and closely monitored her, watching for any slight change in her condition. This was something she could do.

Then Connie swept back in. 'How is she?'

'No change,' Fran reported, still watching the heart rate. 'Unresponsive. MRI's ready whenever we are but her heart rate is erratic.'

Connie nodded, her own eyes scanning the monitors. Almost as an afterthought, she said, 'I'd like you to check the boy over. He's in cubicles. No immediate danger, perhaps a broken leg, but he's conscious and responsive. We can handle things in here.'

A frown creased Fran's forehead. 'But… I'm working here,' she protested. _And I'm not good with kids_ , she wanted to add, but people had only just started overlooking her bump and speaking to her face again; she didn't want to remind them of the irony of her words. The less she thought about it, the better, and dealing with a kid's broken leg wasn't going to take her mind off of it enough.

'I need you in cubicles,' was Connie's response, followed up by a flash of her eyes. 'Quickly.'

She weighed it up, wondering if this was worth arguing over. Then she realised that Connie wasn't even waiting for her, had already taken charge over the woman. She'd been forgotten about. With as much dignity as she could muster, she threw her shoulders back, looping her stethoscope back around her neck before leaving resus.

The cubicles were in need of somebody; that was something Fran recognised as soon as she was in the thick of it. With everybody focused upon resus, there was a certain level of anxiety out here, as patients were given an indefinite time on when a doctor would be available to see them. Connie was only doing what was necessary. It still didn't mean Fran would prefer being here to being in resus.

'Francesca,' Charlie said as she appeared, with what sounded a little like relief in his voice. It had been a while since she'd heard that particular sound.

Briskly, she said, 'Mrs Beauchamp wants me to take a look at the boy. From the RTC.'

'His name's Danny,' Charlie filled her in as he led the way. 'I think he needs an x-ray on his leg, but there doesn't seem to be much damage done to him overall. I mean… he _is_ rather distressed as you might be able to imagine…' He tailed off and gave her an indirectly pointed look. 'Go easy on him.'

Fran didn't dignify that with a response as she tugged the curtain back. 'Danny?' she said, not waiting for a response from the blond-haired boy on the bed. 'I'm Doctor Hardy. Could you tell me where it hurts?'

'Where are my mum and dad?' he demanded immediately, ignoring her request, his voice almost but not quite a plaintive wail. 'Are they okay?'

'We're treating them. I hear you've hurt your leg.' Fran pressed on with her assessment of his condition. He had a few superficial cuts on his face and arms, most likely from a shattered window, but there was no bruising yet and he was indeed conscious and responsive.

'Can I see them?'

'We're taking good care of them,' Charlie put in now. 'And we'll do the same for you if you can just answer Doctor Hardy's questions.'

Danny looked from the nurse to the doctor, his blue eyes alarmingly large. He eyed her warily, before saying, 'My leg hurts.'

'Can I take a look?' Fran asked, and did so without waiting for an answer, ignoring Charlie's small start of alarm. The leg did indeed look broken, quite significantly so. 'We'll need to send you upstairs for an x-ray.'

'Can my mum come with me?' he asked, his eyes widening even further. It was likely the first time he'd ever been in hospital and didn't want to be on his own.

'Your mum's having a scan of her own at the moment,' Fran said, before remembering herself, and then wondering if this boy counted as her next-of-kin. She should probably check that. 'I'll get somebody to go with you.'

'Can't you come?'

Fran blinked. Then, taking a step backwards, she caught Charlie's eye. 'I'll get a porter.'

She was aware of the nurse following her as she found a porter (thankfully not Max Walker) and began reading the board, searching for her next patient. Before he could speak, she cut him off.

'Could we find out the next-of-kin of Hannah Thomas?' she asked now. 'His mother,' she clarified.

'I'm sure we're already onto it. Listen, Francesca,' Charlie got in quickly. 'I know it's busy out here today, but I'm sure we could spare you for a few minutes just to be with the boy.'

'It's not my job.' Absolutely true. She was paid for many things in this hospital, but accompanying minors upstairs for routine x-rays was not one of them. 'I'd be a very expensive porter.'

'He's on his own. It's Christmas.' Charlie pulled a face. 'I'm just saying, if it was my kid…'

And then, like had been happening for weeks now, his eyes slid from her face down to where her hand had traitorously moved to her stomach. She'd found herself standing like this increasingly often, more so as her stomach was slowly distending, making space for the stranger who was inhabiting her body. She had no idea why she was doing it, and now she ripped her hand away, acting as though it didn't belong to her.

'I've got work to do,' she said firmly, reaching for the next patient's set of notes. 'I'll check on him when he comes back.'

* * *

'So.' Lofty appeared next to Max as if from nowhere, not even the bell on his lopsided hat announcing his presence. 'How merry is your Christmas?'

'Do you want minus figures?' Max quipped, before trying to pull himself together; whatever he might feel, none of it was his mate's fault. 'How's yours?'

'Halfway through my shift and no vomit. Can't complain.' Lofty gave him a wink.

'You know you're tempting fate, right?'

'Oh yeah. That's just how I roll.'

Max was able to muster up a grin from somewhere, even if the joke wasn't that funny. If nothing else, it might prevent Lofty giving him that look, the one which had been directed at him for the past few weeks. He wasn't sure which he disliked more: the constant berating his step-sister had been treating him to or his flat-mate's concern. Both were things he could manage without.

And then there was the inevitable unwelcome question.

'Have you spoken to Francesca yet?'

Max glowered at him over his coffee. 'Has Robyn put you up to this?' Lofty's silence was answer enough. 'Not yet.'

'Are you going to?'

Max nodded his head, shook it, shrugged. Anything was preferable to committing to an answer. When that clearly wasn't enough for Lofty, he said, 'It's not that easy.'

'It could be. Just talk to her.' With that, Lofty walked away. It was alright for some; Max didn't have the luxury of just walking away anymore.

* * *

It was a simple break: clean, neat and easy to fix. Fran would get one of the nurses onto it immediately and then… Then she wasn't sure what came next. One glance across the department showed that Danny was still by himself, sitting in the bed which made him look tiny. In the bustle of an ED at Christmas, even those people who might ordinarily have time for a lost little boy were stretched to breaking point. And they still hadn't found a next-of-kin.

'There must be somebody,' Fran said now in the face of Noel's frustrating helplessness. 'Have you tried again?'

'Their next-of-kin is each other.' The receptionist shrugged. 'And they're Danny's.'

Such a very closed family. Fran couldn't entirely blame them for that; there was something to be said for having a simple straightforward set-up. It was certainly something that her own family could learn from. For the first time, she actually wondered what they were doing in London. Or, more precisely, what they were saying. For Cal, omitting the truth came as easily as flirting; for Ethan, approximately the same. She hoped he wasn't dropping her in it.

'Are you okay?' Noel's question dragged her back into the moment. Her hand had crept up to her stomach again.

Tossing her hair back, she didn't answer his question. 'They must have been going somewhere,' she pressed now. 'It's Christmas Day, they must have been visiting someone. Have you checked their phones?'

'On it.' She jumped as two phones clattered onto the desk beside her courtesy of Lofty. 'Both of them have "Mum" listed.'

It absolutely wasn't his job to do that, and Fran wondered what he'd shirked in favour of checking through the address books. Yet he'd achieved something she hadn't; she couldn't grumble about that.

'So we can phone them,' she said now.

Noel nodded, taking the phones off the desk. 'Any idea which one first?'

Fran was about to shake her head, roll her eyes, demand to know if he ever made a decision for himself. Clearly Louise was the dynamic one around here.

Then Lofty stepped in. Again. 'I've checked with Danny. They were on their way to his dad's mum.'

'You asked him?'

'It seemed the logical thing to do.' The nurse pulled a face.

Charlie gave a sigh. 'Well done Lofty.' Then, turning to Fran, 'Do you want me to help plaster Danny's leg?'

Fran nodded half-heartedly. She didn't really want to plaster Danny's leg at all. It was a routine case, one she knew that Cal would turn his nose up at, and it was nowhere near engaging enough to distract her. Still, somebody had to deliver an official diagnosis to the boy and she was still the only doctor in cubicles, which rather made her wonder what had become of Danny's mother and father.

The boy looked both older and younger than he had before when she returned, as though the experience of waiting by himself in a hospital had taught him more than he would ever be ready to deal with. Fran could sort of identify with that, but then shut that part of herself down, concentrating on her job.

'Good news, Danny,' she said now.

'Can I see my mum?' The light which switched on behind his eyes was gut-wrenching and she instantly regretted his words. He was nine: broken bones didn't mean much to you when you were that age; seeing your mum really did.

'Not just yet,' Charlie said, his voice comforting in a way Fran didn't think she'd ever manage even if she worked at it for the rest of her career.

'But you've got a good clean break,' she said now, trying to sound professional and optimistic and instead sounding ridiculous. 'We'll get you plastered up and then it's just a case of resting it. You'll be running around again in no time.'

'When can I see my mum and dad?'

'We'll let you know as soon as you can,' Charlie said. 'Promise. I'll just go and get the stuff to plaster your leg.'

Which left Fran alone with Danny, a position she wasn't sure she was comfortable with. She'd never spent much time with children. Usually she avoided paediatric emergencies at work, knowing she was better suited to working with adults. Children unsettled her, asking questions she wasn't ready to answer and demanding things she didn't know she could deliver. The stakes always seemed raised where children were concerned and it was the sort of pressure even Fran wasn't keen on.

'Grown-ups never keep their promises,' Danny said now. 'They just say that to shut you up.'

Fran wondered how he'd discovered that truth so young; it had taken her at least until secondary school to realise that when grown-ups said 'I promise', they were really saying 'I hope'. It was why she never made promises and tried never to tell untruths.

Despite herself, she was curious. 'Why do you say that?'

'Mum promised this Christmas would be better than last year. She said her and Dad wouldn't argue this year.' He shrugged. 'She lied.'

'Do they argue a lot?'

'All the time.' Then, casting a wary look at her, he said, 'I'm not supposed to tell anyone though.'

Fran was unable to prevent the small smile appearing on her face. 'I don't think I count.'

Reassured, Danny continued. 'They were arguing when the car crashed.'

A pretty brutal end to any argument, Fran thought. A reminder to everybody of the need to concentrate on the road when driving, not get dragged into petty rows over directions or spending the holidays with the in-laws again.

'Are they dead?' The question was so guileless that it took her aback. He asked with the certainty that she'd be honest, that, in a world of lying adults, Doctor Hardy wouldn't lie to him. She liked that.

A frank question deserved a frank answer, something she'd never had any trouble in delivering. 'No. But they are very ill,' she admitted, wondering if she'd said the right thing after all as Danny's face crumpled, as though he'd prepared himself for the worst and the tainted good news was more than he could handle. 'They're both in resus at the moment. We're… doing everything we can for them.'

'Are they going to die?'

It was a question too far. Unable to give him an uplifting answer, she chose to ignore it altogether. 'When I know anything, I'll let you know.'

Charlie rejoined them. 'Danny, your gran's on her way here. We'll have you all set up on crutches by the time she gets here.' Then, turning to Fran, 'I think Lofty could do with your help next door?'

For a moment, Fran wished she didn't have to go. There were people out there who needed her to patch them up and send her home. It was her job, it was why she was here. But it seemed like Danny needed her more.

Then she got a grip on herself.

'I'll be back in a bit,' she said, adding, 'promise.' It would have to be enough for him.

Lofty did indeed need her help, as did Rita and Tess and several other people in the department. For half an hour, she didn't think about Danny at all. The realisation of this when she paused for breath was more unsettling than the fact she'd forgotten him at all. The latter was normal; the former was new and sent her spinning away from his cubicle, unwilling to face him just yet.

Instead, she went to resus.

* * *

Alongside the talking thing, Max also thought he was well designed for life as a porter because he knew how to be patient. Robyn might have called it 'lazy', but he much preferred to see it as a positive quality. It was necessary in his line of work anyway, something that was being demonstrated to perfection this Christmas Day. Here he was, ready and waiting to transfer a patient upstairs, and nobody seemed ready for it to happen just yet. It wasn't something he felt he could complain about though; he was getting paid after all. If he could smoke whilst he waited, he thought it might very well be the best job he'd ever had.

The bed on ICU was imminent, or so the ED had been told on three occasions in the past fifteen minutes. The unconscious man from the RTC didn't seem bothered by the delay (dark humour, Max had learned, was how you got through a shift like this) but everybody around him was frustrated enough on his behalf. Max kept quiet.

Then, finally, the phone rang. Lily fell on it as though it were her own lifeline.

'Hello? Yes? What do you mean you've…? Yes, you do that.' A woman of few words, not many of them friendly, she thumped the phone down again. 'They've given the bed away.'

'What?' Connie demanded, eyes flashing. 'To whom?'

'A critical case from cardiothoracics. They'll call when they have a bed.'

'This is ridiculous,' the clinical lead continued. 'Get them on the phone now. I want to speak with them.'

Max settled himself back against the wall again, wondering if he should take himself elsewhere and look for something else to do. He wasn't the only porter on shift and even if he was, he was hardly a million miles away. If he stood still much longer, Tess would find him a much less appealing job to do.

'Max.' He flinched as Mrs Beauchamp called his name; somehow she managed to sound precisely like his mother when she told him off. 'Can you take my patient up for an MRI?' She gestured towards the parallel bed in resus. 'Lily, could you go with her please?'

'Yes Mrs Beauchamp.' Doctor Chao nodded immediately, ever faithful to her idol.

Max peeled himself off of the wall, rubbing his hands together, preparing for action.

Then the door crashed open. Connie looked up from where she was waiting, extremely impatiently, on the phone.

'What's wrong, Francesca?' she asked, sounding both bored and irritated. Max really didn't want to be the person who finally picked up and faced the Wrath of Beauchamp.

'Nothing.'

Max's eyes slid back towards Connie.

'Then why aren't you in cubicles?'

Back to Francesca. 'I wanted to know how Hannah Thomas was.'

'On her way for an MRI scan.'

'She still hasn't been?'

'She's only just stabilised.' Connie flashed an irritated glare at Francesca. Then, as the other doctor took a step towards the patient, she flashed, 'Francesca!' And then, in an even more annoyed tone, 'Oh finally! It's Connie Beauchamp.'

'Max!' Lily reminded him of his duties, snapping almost as ferociously as the boss. 'Let's go.'

'Right, sure.' He took hold of the bed. 'All aboard.'

Lily flung him a disgusted look as she took the side rail and added nothing at all to his steering abilities. Put back in his place, he resolved not to try any more quips on the journey to and from MRI: if anyone appreciated his efforts less than Francesca Hardy, it was Lily Chao. Get the patient upstairs and back again in one piece: that was his sole purpose right now.

They made it as far as the door before the machines blared into life.

'She's crashing!' Lily announced, as if anybody needed her to translate that for them. 'Get her back in!' she ordered him now, and he did as he was told, because this was the very worst thing about being a porter: standing by and watching things like this, unable to do anything to help.

The next few minutes were meaningless to him, filled with words and statistics he didn't understand. He'd picked up the odd phrase here and there over the past year, could tell his haematoma from his haemorrhoids, but this wasn't the side of the hospital he was good at or even found that interesting. Yet even he knew that talking and joking had no use here, so he stood back and watched as the doctors, the people who knew what they were doing, did what they could to help, nobody more so than Francesca. Without a prompter, she pitched in, whilst Connie directed the procedures from where she was still on hold. Given how Doctor Hardy had avoided him in the past few weeks, he'd had little opportunity to remind himself of a basic fact about her: she was a fantastic doctor.

Even with his basic medical knowledge, though, he was aware that the screeching machines were not a good sign. Nor was it a good sign when Ash left his patient alone to help: three doctors, with a further one in an advisory capacity, was an excessive number unless things were really bad. When Connie finally finished her call, seemingly satisfied, Max could only conclude that things were Bad with a capital B.

At length, Mrs Beauchamp took a step backward.

'How long has she been unresponsive?'

'Fifteen minutes.'

'We've done twenty cycles of CPR. We've shocked twice. There's been no output.' Glancing between the other three doctors, she said, 'I'm calling it.'

There was only a brief pause before Ash said, 'Agreed.'

'Agreed.'

'Agreed.' Francesca was the last and quietest, stepping backwards as if she needed that distance to prevent her from doing something more, keep fighting. Max didn't think she'd ever looked quite so young to him, or tired.

'Time of death, fourteen fifty-six.' Connie gave a brief nod. 'Thank you everybody.' Then, turning to Francesca, 'Can you go back to cubicles?'

'What should I tell her son?' Francesca hesitated before adding, 'I promised I'd tell him if I found anything out.'

That sounded decidedly sentimental and Max was surprised; his experiences with Doctor Hardy, both the elder and younger, suggested that sentimentality was an alien concept to them.

Connie wheeled around. 'Nothing. We wait for his next-of-kin to arrive. Nothing,' she repeated, silencing Francesca instantly. Then, gesturing towards Max, 'There's a bed available on ICU now.'

It took a few seconds for him to realise what she was saying. Distracted by what had happened and how it had ended and the way Francesca was now standing, seemingly lost, he only moved himself when Connie raised a ferocious eyebrow.

'Right, yeah, sure.' He hastened to do his job. It wasn't saving lives, but it was useful. That was enough. For now.

* * *

As Christmases went, this wasn't so bad. When you took into account the charity adverts on television, tucking into a meal which would feed at least three times the amount of guests sat around the table was extreme luxury. Ethan could already feel his belt tightening around his waist and the food-induced coma which would strike as soon as he sat down in the living room. This was not a situation he could complain about.

'Anybody want any more turkey?' Claire Hardy asked now. 'Cal? Ethan?' When they both shook their heads, she said, 'Please? We've got enough to sink a battleship in the kitchen.'

'I'm fine, thank you.' Ethan smiled at his step-mother.

'Yeah, me too.' Cal nodded, chewing with his mouth open, the epitome of bad manners. Ethan didn't know what it was about his older brother and being at what amounted to his home which brought out the worst in him. It was like an etiquette two-fingers-up to David Hardy and the family Cal did his best to pretend he didn't belong to.

Claire looked over at them now, the kind smile Ethan remembered from childhood on her face. 'It's so nice to have you both here. Isn't it, David?'

Her husband, Ethan's father, nodded, uneasy with affection at the very best of times.

'It's a shame about Fran,' Claire added, a refrain which had been trotted out more times than any season's greetings. 'Is she really working all over Christmas and the New Year?'

'That's what she said.' Cal didn't glance in Ethan's direction. It wasn't a lie; Ethan had never seen his sister's name appear so frequently over the rota sheets. It was worrying really; he knew pregnancy wasn't an illness, but he was pretty sure you weren't supposed to work as many shifts as she was even if you were in the very best of health. Fran had always loved her job but this was something else.

'She's putting in the hours,' David said. 'There'll be other Christmases.'

Even Cal paused in shovelling food into his mouth. All eyes turned onto David, who took less time than Ethan might have expected to realise what he'd said.

But 'You know that wasn't what I meant,' was his sole concession to making things better. David Hardy didn't do apologies, because he didn't make mistakes in the first place. Ethan could almost understand why his sister was so reluctant to have him know about her errors of late.

He was sure his father hadn't meant what it had sounded like, and being sensitive had never been a quality David was known for. Momentarily forgetting that this was the first Christmas since his ex-wife's death was forgivable; Ethan himself had forgotten on one or two occasions.

Cal was less forgiving. Silently seething after lunch, he stood outside the back door and grimly chain-smoked his way through half a pack of cigarettes. Ethan tried to pretend he hadn't noticed as he helped Claire with the dishes. Cal's smoking was an unspoken given at family gatherings.

The chores were completed in relative silence, something Ethan was grateful for. He knew this Christmas was a long way from the sort of chaos Fran was working within, but even given that, it was nice to have a few minutes out from underneath his father's scrutiny. It was the first time he'd felt like he could breathe all day, and he let out a long sigh.

Claire laughed. 'Are you finding this all a little boring?'

'No!' He shook his head hastily. 'Not at all. Thank you for having us.'

'Ethan,' she said, sounding disappointed. 'You don't have to thank us. This is your home.'

He appreciated the gesture, although he wasn't sure of the truth behind it. He'd spent some of his childhood in the house, long weekends and holidays with his father and half-sister. Claire had always been kind and caring without being overbearing; in that respect, she was probably the most perfect step-mother ever created. She wasn't his mother, though, and he struggled to conceive of a home without her at the centre of it.

After a long pause, Claire spoke again, her usual breezy tone only slightly changed, the only sign that what she was saying wasn't idle chit-chat. 'I'm going to ask you this, Ethan, because I know you'll tell the truth.' He glanced across at her, sensing the change in the atmosphere. 'Is Fran really alright? I know what she says and I know what Cal says and I'm not asking you to betray any secrets of hers. I just want to know she's not in trouble.'

Ethan knew he was taking too long to reply, mulling over Claire's words rather than simply denying it and reassuring her. In a sense of the word, Fran was very much in 'trouble'; Claire had unwittingly hit it right on the head. Cal had said they wouldn't say a word, wouldn't let it slip in anyway. As ever, he'd underestimated their step-mother.

At length, he said carefully, 'She's had some trouble at work.' Entirely true. He doubted even Cal could find fault with that, apart from the fact that trouble at work was something that had never happened to Fran before. 'But it's sorted now.'

Claire held a glass serving dish up to the light, inspecting it as if it was infinitely more than important than what she was saying. 'It's a relief to have her near you two, you know. I know she's capable of looking after herself, but even so.' She smiled at him. 'Keep an eye on her for me.'

He nodded, relieved to have been let off the hook, even as he knew he'd already let Claire down. If he'd been keeping a real eye upon Fran, he didn't think she'd ever have found herself in this position.

With the dishes done, Claire went for a well-earned sit down. Ethan nodded his intentions to join his father and step-mother in the living room before slipping out of the back door. The December day was crisp and bright, a beautiful Christmas day by anybody's standards. It was a shame to waste it indoors.

It was also a shame that Cal was polluting the air with toxins from the cigarettes he was making short work through. Presuming that David Hardy, vehement anti-smoker, hadn't caved into the habit in recent months, the chipped saucer acting as a makeshift ashtray was alarmingly full.

'You missed helping with the dishes again.'

Cal breathed out a plume of smoke in response.

'Claire spent ages cooking that dinner. The least you could have done was help to put things away again.'

Another stub joined the remnants in the saucer. Cal barely paused before lighting another one.

'Are you staying out here all afternoon?' Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose, determined not to lose his temper with the only sibling he was spending Christmas with. Knowing Cal like he did, he knew he could be stubborn, but even he had limits. Chain-smoking like this wasn't his way. Something had triggered this, and it was obvious what that was.

Trying to sound neutral, he said, 'Dad didn't mean it like that.' When no response came, he said, 'You know he didn't, Cal. He's not like that.' There were many things you could accuse David Hardy of being (demanding, stubborn, abrasive, opinionated) but cruel wasn't one of them. He would never have intended to upset either of the men he called his sons, let alone speak ill of their mother. It was only now, a year after her death, that Ethan had realised that his father, for all of his faults, still loved his ex-wife, in his own peculiar way. He hadn't meant to upset anybody.

Despite himself, Ethan felt his frustration with his brother growing. Their father had made a mistake, a careless split-second error, and, to coin a deeply inappropriate phrase given the circumstances, nobody had died as a result of it. Given how Cal had behaved in the last few months of their mother's life, this level of offense was unjustified.

'We should have gone to church.' Ethan hadn't know he was going to say it until he had, and he knew it was a mistake, at least proving everybody could make them.

Cal threw him a disgusted look. 'What? When did you last go to church?'

There was an easy question to answer. 'Mum's funeral.'

Cal at least had the good grace to drop his gaze to the ground, seeing as how he hadn't gone to the funeral. The church had been packed to the rafters, testament of how many people Diana Hardy had loved and been loved by, yet Ethan had found it one of the loneliest experiences of his life. Never had he felt the absence of his siblings quite as acutely as that day. It was an experience he wouldn't quickly forget.

Now, sensing his advantage, he said, 'She'd have liked it if we'd gone to church.'

'Yeah. Well, she isn't here.' Cal inhaled deeply. 'So we'll never know.'

Ethan half-heartedly clenched his fist, as if he'd ever truly consider punching his only brother. There had been worse moments between them in the past and he suspected there would be worse in the future. He'd get over this. Better to save the punches and avoid ruining Christmas altogether.

'I'm going back in.'

Cal didn't even nod in reply.

In a last ditch attempt to get some reaction from him, he said, 'Claire's been asking about Fran. She knows there's something wrong.'

'You didn't tell her anything, did you?' The cigarette was finally forgotten about, the prodigal sister being far more important.

'No. I'm not an idiot.'

Cal left a brief pause, point-scoring, before saying, 'Good. Anyway, there's nothing wrong. She's fine.'

Ethan wondered if Cal heard himself when he spoke. Fran was pregnant with Max Walker's child, the product of a one-night-stand, and she was planning on giving the baby away without a second glance in six months' time. He wasn't sure what planet his brother was living on if that was what passed for 'fine' in it.

Falling out with him would get them nowhere though. 'Have you heard from her?'

Not wanting to admit failure, it took a Cal a while to shake his head. 'I've text her.'

So had Ethan, several times, breaking his usual insistence upon face-to-face contact. He didn't know why he was so concerned about her today. Working at Christmas was a necessary evil of working within the NHS, and Ethan had done his fair share of shifts. It would be no better or worse than any other day would be. She would be okay.

'I'll see you inside.' He waited for Cal to nod, grudgingly, before he turned and walked through the door.

* * *

Avoiding Danny Thomas's cubicle was taking up more of Fran's energy than she was comfortable with. It didn't mean she was any less capable at her job, but it was frustrating to find every spare minute sent her thoughts tumbling back across to the boy lying in the bed behind the closed curtains. In an attempt to avoid the issue, she tried to fill her time, never allowing her mind to drift. It was how she ended up with three patients to deal with at the same time, and Lofty hovering next to her with a question about a fourth. She only hoped she wouldn't muddle up the notes she had spread out over the desk in front of her.

Doing her best to ignore the hesitant nurse beside her, she read over the symptoms in front of her, filling out the prescription for the man in cubicle ten with an infected cat bite. Why he'd left it until Christmas Day to get it seen to was a whole other issue she wasn't going to get into. Her job was to treat him and clear the cubicle as soon as she possible could. It was a job she'd been very good at so far today and she wasn't going to break her record now.

She signed the prescription.

The pen skipped off the end of the page as a muscle contracted in her stomach. Or what felt like a muscle anyway. Involuntarily, her hands went to the site of the discomfort as it flickered again.

'You okay?' Lofty asked now, concern in every syllable.

Fran ignored the question. 'What did you want?'

Lofty sounded doubtful even as he answered her. 'Can you check the blood pressure on my patient? I've taken it a few times and she should be clinically dead.'

Fran half-nodded and then it happened again.

'Are you really okay? Should I get someone?'

'No!' Fran was adamant on that point. 'I'm fine.' A statement rather belied by the way she flinched when it happened again.

'I should get someone.'

'No, you shouldn't!'

'Is something wrong?' Tess looked between the two of them, half-concern, half-irritation.

'No!'

'She's in pain.'

'No, I'm not.' Fran glowered at Lofty. 'It's not… pain, as such. It's…' She didn't quite know how to describe the fluttering in her stomach so she didn't try.

Tess looked her up and down, then said, 'Does it feel like a muscle spasm?'

Unwillingly, Fran nodded.

'And you're what, four months gone?'

Almost. She nodded again.

'The baby's moving.' Tess smiled unexpectedly. 'It's a good thing.'

Fran looked down at her stomach, the vague bulge beneath her hospital scrubs that most of the time she was able to dismiss as a large meal. Ever since her last scan, she'd done her best to forget about the reality and concentrate upon doing the very best job she could do at the hospital. Foregoing a Christmas at her parents' house was merely a bonus of the situation; honestly, she'd have tried to avoid it regardless of her fertility status. Day-to-day life had been unchanged.

And now here it was, a reminder of the nightmare she was living within, that there was a living being just beneath her skin who she hadn't asked for. What's more, it had involved two of her colleagues, people she didn't want to exchange anything more than professional dialogue with. The way Tess was looking at her now was the worst part: as though she was somebody to be pitied. Even Lofty gazed at her, half-startled, half-amazed. She wondered how much he knew, whether the person he'd have got would have been Max, whether she was merely footsteps away from everything being revealed.

The fear took a hold of her and her mind turned to the only thing which would distract her from this moment in any way.

'Has Danny Thomas's next-of-kin arrived yet?'

Tess's smile faded slowly, as though it took her face several seconds to catch up with the change of conversation. Fran didn't know why she felt such a disappointment to the nurse; she hadn't known she owed her anything.

'His gran's with Mrs Beauchamp.' Lofty spoke as though it was common knowledge.

Fran stared at him for a moment and then stood up, sweeping the notes together and thrusting the prescription at Tess. 'This is for the man in bed ten, then he can be discharged.'

'What about my patient?' Lofty asked.

'Speak to Doctor Chao.' Looping her stethoscope around her neck, Fran made for the relatives' room.

She didn't know why this one had bothered her so much. She'd treated kids before, she'd had parents die on her watch. She did her duty. This was not her duty, and it unnerved her how much she wanted to be there when Danny was told of his mother's death. This was why she didn't make promises; she found they only weakened you, made you responsible for somebody else in a way she wasn't willing to be. Even as she reached the door to the relatives' room, she hesitated.

Knocking on the door, she waited impatiently for Connie's summons. When she went in, she found Danny's gran, a woman of surprising youthfulness who was listening intently to what the clinical lead had to say.

Connie looked mildly irritated by Fran's appearance, but rescued her face quickly. 'Doctor Hardy has been treating your grandson. Doctor Hardy, this is Mrs Thomas.'

Fran nodded a greeting.

'How is Danny?' Mrs Thomas turned her attentions away from Connie immediately, as though she'd heard enough bad news from her and was desperate for something positive. With a dead daughter in-law and her son in a critical condition, Fran supposed this qualified as the very worst Christmas possible.

'He's sustained a fractured leg which we've plastered. It should heal well. There's no other injuries. He's been asking about his parents though.' Then, in a rush, 'I promised him I'd let him know how they are.'

Connie barely contained her irritation. 'That wasn't your place, Doctor Hardy. Mrs Thomas, we will of course support you in any way we can.' She flashed Fran another glare for good measure before standing up. 'Would you like to see Danny now?'

'I can take her.'

'That won't be necessary.' Connie insisted. 'Bear with us, Mrs Thomas, and I'll see if one of the nurses who has been treating Danny is available for you. Doctor Hardy.' It was an expectation that Fran went with her as she sailed out of the relatives' room.

'It is not up to you to break news to patients about family circumstances,' Connie began in an undertone as they walked towards the cubicles. 'Mrs Thomas is more than qualified for the job.'

'I know, but-'

'But nothing!' Connie barked, before lapsing into a hiss again. 'Nor is it up to you to pick and choose which patients get preferential treatment.'

'I wasn't-'

'There are other patients that need treating.'

'I know!' Fran finally lost her cool. 'But I made him a promise!' She didn't bother adding _and I never make promises_. Connie would only see that as a sign of weakness, a sign that she was prioritising some patients over others. She didn't even know why she'd made that promise. Danny was far from the only child she'd ever treated, far from the only one who'd lost a parent on her watch. It was entirely uncharacteristic, but it was done now, and she didn't want to prove to him that yet another adult had let him down.

'A promise you had no right to make!' Connie retorted. Before Fran could formulate a response, she said, 'Take a break, Doctor Hardy.'

'But-'

'Take a break!'

Fran considered arguing then wondered why. Connie was right: this was a simple case of a broken leg that she'd treated. The circumstances of his mother's death had nothing to do with them and she had no duty to break that news to him, especially with his grandma in the picture. Ordinarily, Fran had no problems with drawing those lines between the professional and the personal. She couldn't understand what had happened today.

Dropping her head, she turned on her heel and left the cubicles, steadfastly ignoring the cubicle behind which Danny Thomas anxiously awaited news of his parents. She didn't know why it felt like she was letting him down; he'd hear soon enough, and God knew it was the kind of news which could wait. She didn't know even know why she'd argued to be allowed to be the one who told it: it wasn't an enviable job.

Sitting down in the staffroom, she took a few deep breaths to calm herself. Then the breaths became deeper and slower, and she wondered how she'd failed to notice how tired she was up until now.

* * *

She looked different when she was asleep, Max mused. It was as though she put up a mask during every waking minute, a mask of professionalism and perfection which was nice to look at but hid any real emotions. Asleep, her guard was dropped and there was something more human about her. She was almost approachable.

Almost, but not quite. He'd come in here hoping to be able to corner her and drag out some answers from her. Waking her up hadn't been part of the bargain, and he thought maybe he ought to just leave her to it, catch up with her another time, save his questions…

He'd forgotten about the motion-sensitive Santa. Francesca started awake as 'Jingle Bells' blasted out into the silent staffroom.

'Sorry!' He dived for it, stabbing the off button unsuccessfully several times before wrenching the batteries out. 'Sorry!'

Francesca blinked, disorientated, seemingly unable to place where she was. Max could appreciate that; it was the sort of feeling he'd had on far too many occasions when he'd fallen asleep in front of the TV at home. Waking up at work must be altogether more confusing, almost nightmarish.

'You alright?' he asked now, instinctively. He didn't know why he was always asking her that, because nobody had ever seemed more alright than Francesca Hardy. She made being alright look effortless. But it was Christmas, and she'd had a horrible shift and she looked shattered. Even without the connection between them, he'd be asking.

It took a moment but then, abruptly, she put up the walls again. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

That was the way she wanted to play it then. 'Well, sleeping on the job…'

'I'm on a break. Or I was.' She glanced at her watch. 'What's your excuse?'

'We need to talk.' He cringed at the words because they sounded so dramatic, but then he wasn't sure that this _wasn't_ pretty dramatic. Here she was, the mother of his unborn child, looking like crap at work on Christmas Day. It was pretty made-for-TV movie.

'Now?'

'You can think of a better time?'

'Several.'

'Suggest one then.' He folded his arms defiantly, unsure how they'd got from a singing Santa to sniping within mere seconds. He could usually get along with anybody; something about Francesca brought out his sharp-tongued side.

'I didn't know we needed to talk.'

'For real?' He gave her a doubtful look. 'You think we have nothing to talk about?'

She shrugged vaguely.

'So you were just kidding when you told me you were having my kid? And I'm assuming you _are_ having it,' he added, gesturing towards her. She wasn't exactly at beach-ball stage, but she definitely looked like she'd eaten too many carbs, something he doubted Francesca Hardy ever did. 'So I'd say we have quite a bit to talk about.'

He thought he'd stumped her there, as she didn't make an immediate come-back. He thought he'd actually made her listen and take on board what he was saying. He thought he'd done pretty well.

'I'm having the baby adopted.'

Max didn't get sick, unless you counted hangovers, which mostly he did, but his stomach roiled now like never before. He couldn't really account for the wave of nausea which swept through him at her words. It was, after all, a solution to the problem they'd created, one he wouldn't have thought of, proving that Francesca had far more of a handle on the situation than he did. That didn't surprise him. It was the casual way she said it which did.

'You're…' He swallowed hard, before trying again. 'You're having it adopted? Just like that?'

'Yes.' Then, defiantly, 'What other choice do I have? I can't keep it!'

'Why not?' He had no idea that was going to slip out.

She stared at him in disbelief for a long moment, her mouth moving but no sounds coming out of it. It was probably the least poised and terrifying she'd ever looked, at least in his sober memory. It seemed he had actually stumped her this time.

Then, standing up, she spoke in a cool voice. 'We're not discussing this. It's my decision.'

'So I don't get a say at all then?'

'Do you want one?' she demanded. 'Do you want a baby? With me?'

He knew he was hesitating that bit too long, thinking when it should have been his gut instinct instead. Making decisions was one of the main things he hated about being a bona fide adult. He wondered if that was what Francesca was counting on.

Because now she gave a firm nod. 'Don't worry about it. By June, it'll be over.'

As the door closed behind her, Max slumped down into a chair. All energy seemed to have been drained out of him and the thought of heading back into the chaos of Christmas on the ED was more unappealing than it had ever been. Francesca had thrown out June as if it was just around the corner, a mere few weeks away. It was seven months. He'd have to work alongside her for seven months as she grew bigger, as the baby started kicking and moving around. That was over half a year. On such a miserable winter day, which no amount of tinsel and fairy lights could brighten, the summer seemed a lifetime away. He wasn't sure he could exist like this for a lifetime.

* * *

 ** _Next time: The Magic in my Veins_**

 _'You getting a round in?'_

 _Ethan looked from the empty bottle to his big brother. 'Again,' he added pointedly, as if it would make any difference._

 _'Mine's a beer' Cal nodded. He was talking in that over-loud way he had whenever he drank too much, as if he wasn't standing less than a foot away from the person he was speaking to. 'Make it two.' With a clap on Ethan's back, he was gone again._

 _Ethan tried not to sigh too loudly as he began the laborious process of gaining the barman's attention. Admittedly, Cal wouldn't have been any better at that, but some company whilst he waited for everybody without Y-chromosomes to be served wouldn't have gone amiss. Slumping over the small section of bar he'd managed to stake his claim over, he prepared himself for a long wait._

 _'God, is this place for real?' A burst of energy slammed into his side, almost making him stumble. It took him several seconds to recover himself enough to take in the mass of mahogany curls and lashings of red lipstick which was now lambasting the barman specifically and pubs in general for erasing years of her life. By the time he came back to reality, she was reeling off an order which seemed designed to sink a battleship in its potency._

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title comes from 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' by loads of people, especially Judy Garland in Meet Me In St Louis because the film is great.


	10. The Magic in My Veins

**Throwing a curveball in there in tonight's chapter: brand new character! This happened for a variety of reasons: to give Ethan a reason for being in this story, and because something else needed to happen. Pregnancies are SLOW news for stories and I didn't want to leap from Xmas to summer, or just have tedious huffiness from Fran and Max. There _is_ tedious huffiness from Fran and Max, but there's other stuff too!**

 **So I'd love some feedback on my newest creation. She's... interesting... Given she's my character, you'd think I'd have an easier time liking her but it's taken until I've written (almost) her whole storyline to really get her. See what you think.**

* * *

' _You take me over, you're the magic in my veins. This must be love.'_

'Cal?'

Cal dropped the folder of notes in his hands, grateful for a distraction. A late night plus a busy shift made for a painful experience, and talking was infinitely more attractive than thinking.

'Yeah?'

Rita glanced over her shoulder, before saying, 'Is Francesca okay?'

He almost got whiplash from turning to check on his sister. He envisaged blood and crying and possibly a broken bone or two. Instead, she was talking to a patient, showing them the x-rays on the tablet and describing the next steps. She looked fine.

Clearly Rita saw his confusion. 'I mean, she seems fine. It's just… don't you think she's working quite hard?'

Reading those notes was definitely easier than this. Cal wondered if he'd misheard and replayed what she said, failing to see how that could be a criticism, especially of Fran: working hard was her thing. Plus, the department was busy, and Rita was ostensibly in charge whilst Tess was on her break, so she should be pleased.

When he still didn't reply, Rita qualified again, 'Just, in her condition, she should be taking it easier.'

Cal knew his response would be identical to his sister's. 'She's pregnant, not ill.'

'I know,' Rita said, a little irritably. 'I'm just saying, she's pulled quite a few shifts recently and… well, she's putting you and Ethan combined to shame with the number of patients she's processing. I just wonder if she's looking after herself. I'm being nice!' she insisted finally.

He was sure she was; Rita had her flaws, but she would hardly criticise somebody for doing their job well. Something from the tone of her voice suggested she might have already had to justify this concern to somebody else. 'Have you mentioned this to her?'

'For what it was worth,' she replied, confirming his suspicions. He could just imagine what Fran's reaction would have been. 'I just wondered if you, or Ethan, had spoken to her about it.'

That would involve actually speaking to Fran about anything, something she'd been all too keen to avoid in the past few days since the new year had begun. It seemed that the season of goodwill had not lessened her determination to hold both brothers at arms' length and in the day-to-day of a busy ED, she managed it beautifully. There was always another patient to see, another box to tick, another phone call to make. At the end of the shift, she melted away into the winter nights, hastening away from any attempts to engage her in social chit-chat. With still no forwarding address, Cal wasn't sure when he was supposed to pin his baby-sister down for a chat about her own baby.

None of this needed sharing with Rita though.

Shrugging, hoping he sounded unconcerned, he said, 'She's fine. She's just doing her job.'

Rita looked at him for a few more seconds before nodding. 'Okay. Good. So long as she's looking after herself.'

And there was the rub, Cal thought, looking at Fran again as she finished treating her patient and thought nobody was looking. Her shoulders sagged and she sighed deeply, as if this entire shift was taking more energy than she had to expend. By now, her pregnancy was undisguisable, even under hospital scrubs, and he expected that was contributing to her stress levels. It probably was time he had a word with her.

'Cal, two patients coming into resus, carbon monoxide poisoning.' Lily jerked him back into reality. 'ETA five minutes.'

He shot Fran one last look before following Doctor Chao through to resus. Fran would wait.

* * *

Max took one cigarette out of the packet, put it to his lips, flicked the lighter and took one long, much needed drag. Exhaling, he felt all the muscles in his back loosen as he enjoyed the one sane moment he'd had all day.

'Finally!' He jumped as an unfamiliar voice broke into his thoughts. 'Thought I'd never find a smoker in this place!' Before Max could respond, in either words or actions, a paramedic with a mass of mahogany hair piled on top of her head joined him, her own cigarette already lit. 'Dixie and Iain look at me like I'm the devil incarnate!' A couple of puffs later, she said, 'I'm Tiffany, by the way. The new paramedic.'

Max looked her up and down, taking in the bright green uniform. 'Yeah, I… got that,' he said rather faintly, entirely blind-sided by the brash American who had interrupted his alone time. It wasn't very often people managed to take him unawares; he was impressed.

'You're Max, right?'

'Uh… yeah.' He took another drag on his cigarette, the only solution for this kind of wizardry. 'How did you…?'

She left a long pause, before giving him an overly-familiar slap on the shoulder. 'It's on your badge, loser.'

He glanced down to find she was indeed right; his badge had got caught up in his hoodie, testament to the fact he'd bolted outside at the first opportunity he'd got today. It was an awful look, so he wrestled it back into position, still eyeing up the paramedic warily. As soon as she was gone, he was going to see whether she'd caused any permanent damage to his shoulder.

Her departure didn't seem to be happening any time soon, though, as she rattled on in her exotic (for Holby) accent, cigarette disappearing alarmingly quickly. Max had always thought he was a chronic smoker, increasingly so over the past few weeks, but this Tiffany took it to a whole new level. She may as well be eating the tobacco.

Then, an unlikely hero arrived.

'There you are.' Iain rounded the corner, looking more than usually harassed. 'Dixie's been looking all over for you. The ambulance needs restocking.'

Having smoked the cigarette almost down to the filter, she stubbed it out, rolling her eyes at Max. 'No rest for the wicked.' Then she strolled away.

Max blinked.

'So, you've met Tiffany then?'

'Yeah.'

'And?'

Max wasn't sure how he was supposed to answer that. A year ago, he'd have remarked on her pouting lips and honeypot eyes. That would have been all he'd have seen; he'd even have overlooked the weird. Now, he was left tongue-tied. Finally he managed, 'She's… confident.'

'I think it's a side-effect. Of being Californian,' Iain clarified when Max shot him a confused look. 'She's… not getting on great with Dixie.'

Something which anybody with a vague working knowledge of Holby City might have predicted. Dixie's loyalties had been tested repeatedly in the previous twelve months and anybody (un)fortunate enough to be filling the vacancy at the ambulance station would bear the brunt of her emotions. In light of how self-confident Tiffany seemed, Max wasn't sure it would do her any harm.

'What are you doing after work today?'

Max almost choked on his cigarette. 'Is this a date?'

Iain rolled his eyes as he grinned. 'I was thinking we could get everyone together, welcome her properly. Oh come on, you remember what being new was like.'

Max did, but he wasn't sure why that involved him. 'I was thinking of getting an early night, mate…'

'Could you sound any lamer?'

'Probably not.' Max studied his feet. He knew he'd been a let-down over the past few weeks; ever since the news Francesca had delivered to him at Christmas he'd been reluctant to socialise, as if that would somehow make things better. Unwilling to bring down everybody else around him, he'd kept to himself. It had seemed the logical thing to do. Truthfully, though, he wasn't feeling any better about himself now. Maybe it was time for an alternative strategy.

'What are you suggesting?' he asked now.

'Nothing special, just the pub.' Iain shrugged. 'Just introduce her around. Show her we're not all "demanding diva bitches".'

Max winced. 'She said that about Dixie?'

'She said it _to_ Dixie.'

'Yikes.'

'She needs all the help she can get. So…?' Iain left a long pause.

Sighing, Max nodded. 'Alright, I'll… see what everybody's doing.' Silently, he omitted Cal, Ethan and Fran from 'everybody'. The way Robyn had been with him recently, he might omit her too; they wanted to welcome Tiffany, not make her wonder how she'd stumbled upon such a dysfunctional workforce.

'Great. See you after work then.'

Max treated himself to another cigarette before he re-joined the world inside.

* * *

In a bid to stave off the exhaustion that was threatening to seep into every bone, Fran ran through the successes of the day as she walked across the car park that evening. Two successful resuscitations, with a good prognosis in each case. Four swiftly diagnosed fractures of varying degrees, all of which had been patched up and sent on their way in under an hour. The wait time had been shorter than it had been since New Year, which, whilst it was only five days into January, was something she was proud of. All in all, it had been a good day. She should be feeling more cheerful than she did.

'Fran!' Without turning, she knew who was calling her name, and she didn't break her stride. Only when Cal again said, 'Fran!' did she so much as slow down enough for him to catch up with her. 'Where are you going in such a hurry?'

'Home?' She gestured towards her car.

'Aren't you going to come for a drink?' The high-pitched nature of his voice said he knew what he was saying was ridiculous. He gestured towards the pub nevertheless as he added, 'Everybody's going.'

And nobody had invited her. She'd have said no, so she didn't blame them, and ever since they'd found out about her pregnancy, people had treated her more like a grenade with the pin pulled out than ever. It was as though it was catching. And since Max had started avoiding her, it had become a very quiet place to work. Not that Fran wanted the gossip and hubbub and noise. It had just never taken such a short amount of time for everybody to get her hint that socialising wasn't on her radar.

Everybody except Cal, it seemed, as he pressed her now. 'Oh come on, just one drink.'

She might have smiled at the irony of his statement if she could have found the energy somewhere; the last time she'd accepted an offer like that, she'd landed herself in this situation right here. Instead, she made a pointed gesture towards her stomach, using it as an excuse for the first time. 'I'm pregnant.'

'You can still have a coke.'

'I don't want to.' Then, sighing, she said, 'Whatever it is you want to say, just say it.'

'I want to know if you're alright.'

'I'm fine.'

'You're working really hard.'

'I'm doing my job. If a few other people did theirs properly, maybe I wouldn't have to work so hard.' She knew she was being unfair. Nobody slacked off, not even Cal, not so much that she needed to feel as though she was taking on three people's caseloads. As teams went, the people at Holby City ED were one of the best she'd ever come across, and she knew she should appreciate that more. She just didn't feel much like it at the end of yet another long shift.

'Fran!'

'What?' She rolled her eyes. 'I just want to go home, Cal. I'm tired.'

'Because you're working too hard!'

'Because I've just done a twelve hour shift! That's fact, Cal, it's not a choice.' Days like today, she understand why her father had gone into private practice where these sort of working hours and conditions just didn't exist. Truthfully, she was slightly more tired than she would ordinarily be at the end of a shift, but she wasn't going to tell anybody that.

'Have you spoken to Max?'

A name always guaranteed to get her hackles up. 'What's he got to do with anything?'

'Have you told him about your decision?'

'It's none of his business.' Not a lie. He'd foregone any right to have a say when he'd failed to come up with an answer to her questions. Then, sulkily, 'I told him a couple of weeks ago.'

'And?'

'And what?'

'How did he take it?'

She shrugged, because she didn't know what to say. There was no way you could take news like that well and she didn't know how she'd wanted him to take anyway. He'd all but accepted it, which she supposed was the desired outcome.

'If he gives you any trouble-'

She gave an unexpected bark of laughter. 'He won't.' She wasn't sure he was capable of it. The way he was cringing away from her every time their paths crossed, doing his best to pretend she didn't exist, she was certain he wasn't going to make trouble for her. Anyway, causing trouble for somebody didn't seem to go with Max Walker's personality.

'But if he _does_ ,' Cal stressed. 'Just let me know.'

It was all too little too late, but he was trying, and Fran had to give him credit for that. He was trying to be her big brother and take care of her in the face of something he had no way of understanding. This wasn't his fault, so she nodded.

'Okay.' Cal sighed. 'You're really sure you won't come for a drink?'

'Certain.' When he still looked at her, puppy-eyed, she rolled her eyes. 'Cal, they don't _want_ me there!' If she'd been an outcast before, she was practically a pariah now she was unexpectedly and inexplicably pregnant. She could only imagine what rumours were flying around about the father and who would even spend a night with her. They could fly around all they wanted; she just didn't want to hear them.

That Cal didn't even try and argue the point was telling. 'Get some rest, then, yeah?'

She nodded. That was easy to agree to. Climbing back into bed had been top of her agenda ever since she'd rolled out of it this morning.

'Night then.'

'Night.'

* * *

This was the last place Ethan wanted to be. The end of the first week back into routine after Christmas, he was ready for nothing more than his bed. He was here for two reasons only. One, because Iain had made a very good case for welcoming the new paramedic here, and Ethan still remembered what being new felt like. And two, because Cal had seemed more than up for this and if Cal was getting hammered, Ethan wouldn't get much sleep anyway. At the age of thirty-five, Cal was still incapable of letting himself into the flat quietly when he'd been out drinking. At least this way, Ethan might feel less irritated when Cal was stumbling around the flat at midnight.

'You getting a round in?'

Ethan looked from the empty bottle to his big brother. 'Again,' he added pointedly, as if it would make any difference.

'Mine's a beer' Cal nodded. He was talking in that over-loud way he had whenever he drank too much, as if he wasn't standing less than a foot away from the person he was speaking to. 'Make it two.' With a clap on Ethan's back, he was gone again.

Ethan tried not to sigh too loudly as he began the laborious process of gaining the barman's attention. Admittedly, Cal wouldn't have been any better at that, but some company whilst he waited for everybody without Y-chromosomes to be served wouldn't have gone amiss. Slumping over the small section of bar he'd managed to stake his claim over, he prepared himself for a long wait.

'God, is this place for real?' A burst of energy slammed into his side, almost making him stumble. It took him several seconds to recover himself enough to take in the mass of mahogany curls and lashings of red lipstick which was now lambasting the barman specifically and pubs in general for erasing years of her life. By the time he came back to reality, she was reeling off an order which seemed designed to sink a battleship in its potency. Ethan might have been annoyed by her being served before him if he hadn't been quite so impressed with her efficiency.

'And whatever he's having,' she concluded. 'Hey!' A sharp poke in his ribs. 'I was talking about you.'

'Oh.' Ethan blinked several times before managing to spit out, 'Two lagers.'

'Oh really?' The woman wrinkled her nose up and rolled her eyes. 'Why does no-one around here know how to let loose? Two vodkas.'

'Oh no, not for me,' Ethan tried to protest, even as the barman slapped two shots down on the bar alongside the bottles of lager. 'Oh. Oh let me,' he said, too late again as she handed over her credit card.

Fixing him with a triumphant smile, she said, 'You'll just have to get the next round in. I'm Tiffany, by the way.'

Ethan's eyes widened even further. Here she was, the reason they'd all trailed to the pub this evening. And she was… quite something. It took him a few seconds to remember his manners, sticking out his hand in the small space between them and saying, 'I'm-'

'Ethan, yeah, I know. God, you don't think I'd buy just anybody a drink?' Tiffany rolled her eyes again, before nudging the vodkas towards him. 'So are you doing these?'

'I've got a shift tomorrow.'

'Join the club.' Her eyes sparkled mischievously. 'Go on. Otherwise I'll have to drink them and you don't want to see me on vodka.'

Watched closely by her, he reluctantly lifted one shot and downed it, trying not to grimace too hard as the burning liquid coursed down his throat. The thought of a second one made his stomach roil uncomfortably; a few pints after work was all he'd ever been good for where alcohol was concerned, and he hoped this Tiffany would lose interest before he was forced to drink the other shot.

'Is this mine?' Cal reached between them. 'And a vodka too? You're spoiling me, Ethan.' The shot vanished immediately, followed by a long gulp from the bottle. Then, not missing a beat, he turned his attention to Tiffany. 'Who's this?'

Ethan wasn't sure what to make of her reaction to his brother. Her eyes widened, as if she'd never seen someone quite like him before. Then she angled herself away from him ever so slightly, as if even brushing against him would be too much. It wasn't a normal reaction, but then this was Cal: Ethan had seen much worse reactions to his brash, overconfident brother.

'This is Tiffany,' he said eventually. 'Tiffany, this is-'

'Cal,' Tiffany finished for him, as he'd somehow suspected she might. 'I know.' Them, abruptly, she said, 'I should get back. Take the drinks.' She gestured towards the tray next to her and the group of people she'd left behind. 'I'll catch you later.'

'Hate to see you go. Love to watch you leave,' Cal murmured as she made her way through the crowds of people nimbly and neatly.

It took Ethan a few seconds to catch up with what his brother was saying, largely because his eyes were riveted to pretty much the same spot. 'Cal!' he said eventually, hypocritically.

'What?' Cal protested. 'Seriously, look at the body on that.'

'She does have a name.'

'I'm just saying, if you don't want people to look, don't wear jeans like that. I bet she's an animal.'

'Cal!' Ethan pressed a hand to his eyes, hoping to stem the irritation he felt entirely naturally when it came to his brother.

'Sorry, Nibbles, didn't know you were so easily offended.' Cal rolled his eyes as he took another swig from the bottle. 'What's rattled your cage?'

Ethan didn't really know. Cal's common-or-garden misogyny was part of who he was and certainly nothing new. He shouldn't be so bothered by it. It had just been a long day.

'Have you spoken to Fran?' he asked now. Talking to his sister had been on his to-do list this week, but it kept getting longer and longer and bumping the conversation further and further down the order. It wasn't something he was proud of, but there it was.

'Yeah.' It seemed the encounter had taken some of Cal's buoyancy out of him as he slumped down onto the bar, oblivious to those people who actually wanted to order.

'And?'

'She's alright. She is!' Cal insisted as Ethan scoffed. 'She's fine.'

Ethan wondered if Cal really believed that. Fran could be convincing when she wanted to be and what was more, they'd come to expect her to be alright. Ethan had certainly assumed she'd be fine all those years ago at Lannister House, refused to believe that his baby sister wouldn't survive anything and everything thrown at her. He'd been wrong then and he couldn't quite believe that Cal could be right now.

'She looks tired,' he said, because she did. It was what had struck him as soon as he'd seen her after Christmas, but he hadn't had the time, inclination or nerve to say to her. He didn't know why.

'She's four months pregnant and she works in a hospital. Of course she's tired.'

It was a fair enough point; Ethan was exhausted and he wasn't pregnant. 'Has she spoken to Max?'

'Yeah, he knows.'

'And he's okay with it?'

'He doesn't get to have an opinion.'

Ethan didn't even need to ask if that was Fran speaking: the words had his sister's stamp all over them. Cal was supporting his sister, but Ethan found he couldn't quite agree with him. It was simple to say that it was Fran's decision, yet this wasn't a case of it being her body, her right to choose what happened. She was having this baby anyway, her body was changing in a thousand different ways to accommodate the stranger inside her. This baby would be born and then be given away. Somehow it seemed like Max should have some rights here, some opportunity to say what he wanted to happen to the baby that was half of him.

Glancing across the pub, Ethan saw where the object of his thoughts was standing, beer in hand, listening to something Lofty was saying. For all the world, he looked like a man with no worries or cares at all. It was something Max was virtually known for; his carefree existence made Cal look like he had a burden on his shoulders. A baby wouldn't fit into this lifestyle. Fran was probably right, and Max didn't look like he cared much either way anyway, throwing his head back laughing like a kid himself. Perhaps Ethan was being oversensitive.

'So do you reckon she's got a boyfriend?'

Ethan blinked himself back into the conversation, wondering if he'd missed a vital plot point. 'Fran?' Even without the pregnancy, the sentence sounded entirely alien.

Cal looked at him. 'No. Tiffany. Do you think she's single?'

The paramedic was on the other side of the pub, all hair-tossing and eyelash fluttering at Ash and Iain. These flirtations looked exhausting to Ethan, but seemed to be the very reason why she was here. He'd heard that Dixie was less than charmed by her new team-member, and watching her now, he could guess why. This wasn't the way to win Dixie's respect. Or anybody's, really, Ethan mused, before looking at his brother. Maybe respect wasn't what she wanted though.

'I'm sure you'll find out,' he said eventually, even more wearily than before. If she was single, he was certain Cal would find out, would do something about it. It was what would happen and Ethan wasn't much interested.

Swallowing the last of his lager, he glanced at his watch. 'I better get going.'

'So early?'

'Yes.' He nodded, and found his eyes drawn over towards where Tiffany was now laughing, hand on Ash's arm. 'Have a good night.'

* * *

 ** _Next time: The Female of the Species_**

 _Before Cal could ask more, there was a scream from the cubicles, and Lofty came bouncing out of the curtains, hands held high._

 _'I swear I did nothing,' he began as Fran reached him. 'I was just going to wash her feet and she freaked out.'_

 _If Lofty didn't look so shocked, Fran might have suspected him to be lying; the woman looked petrified, hunched up one end of the bed, her eyes even wider than before. In between the animalistic cries, she was talking in a language that Fran couldn't even recognise, let alone make out any of the words in. What was clear was that Lofty was not the person for this job._

 _'Okay, calm down,' she said now, hearing herself sounding awkward and insincere. 'It's alright.'_

 _'I didn't do anything,' Lofty said again as Tess arrived on the scene. With him outside the cubicle, the woman seemed to calm herself again, her breathing slowing._

 _Tess glanced at Fran. 'Shall I get a female nurse?'_

 _Fran nodded grimly, studying the woman's face. Let's give her a mild sedative. And get that interpreter. There's something going on here.'_

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'Boom Clap' by Charlie XCX - it doesn't make 100% sense, and would have been great if I'd looped in some drug addiction patient with a title like that. I wanted something that conjured up that instant hit from meeting somebody new, because I definitely think Tiffany has that effect upon people.


	11. The Female of the Species

**Last update for a week as I'm away with work in the wilds of nature with no laptop and barely any internet connection. Hope you enjoy it - it's long...**

* * *

' _The female of the species is more deadly than the male.'_

'Tell me everything you know about Doctor Hardy.'

Max wondered if he'd ever have a quiet solo cigarette again. Not since Zoe left had he had such regular company on his break, and he was only half enjoying it. Tiffany had been described, kindly, as a 'breath of fresh air' by Charlie, but Max thought she was more like a hurricane. The only explanation for the energy which hummed around her at all times was that she'd OD'd on Vitamin D in California and was only now putting it to use. He didn't know if he had it in him to deal with her after the amount he'd drunk last night.

Still, it couldn't harm to play along; he really wanted this cigarette and walking away would be rude. He led with his standard response to that question.

'Which one?'

It went down about as well as it usually did in the ED, maybe worse.

'Is that that British sarcasm thing? Cause it's not cute.' She barely paused for breath, her cigarette burning down in a way Max almost found offensive. 'The hot one. And, okay, Francesca probably does have this whole sexy secretary thing going on, but she's, like what, four months pregnant? So she doesn't count.'

Four months. Tiffany was spot on, and Max wondered how, whether it was some female thing, where they could smell hormonal changes in another woman. Then, his mind too tired to deal with that, he instead latched onto the tantalising nugget Tiffany had just given him.

'You think Ethan's hot?' Despite himself, he grinned.

'God, yeah!' To her credit, she didn't seem embarrassed, something Max liked. In comparison with the sisters he'd grown up with, who'd slammed doors and feigned ignorance at the first mention of a boy they might like, Tiffany was indeed a breath of fresh air. 'He's got that whole Hugh Grant bumbly sexiness, plus he's a doctor which is, like, wow! He's totally hot. Don't you think so?'

He raised his eyebrows. 'He's not really my type.'

Tiffany ignored him. 'So come on, fill me in.'

Max took a drag on his cigarette. 'About what?'

'Everything! Is he single? Does he have his own place? Is he gay? Cause I'm getting a gay thing off of him, might be the glasses.'

A barrage of questions which she seemed to expect him to answer. 'Why would I know any of this?'

'Because you know everything around here.' Tiffany shrugged. 'Like, Robyn said if I wanted to know who the father of Francesca's baby was, I should ask you. Which,' she said now, pointing her diminishing cigarette at him, 'I will totally get around to. When you've helped me with Ethan.'

Max paused with the cigarette halfway to his mouth. 'Why would I know about Francesca's baby?' By even asking that question, he suspected he was implicating himself, but he couldn't avoid it. He couldn't believe Robyn had sold him out like that.

Luckily, Tiffany's attention span was already pressed to its limits by her new-found obsession with Ethan. 'That's not the point here. What about Ethan?'

'What about him?' Max repeated, before shaking himself when she looked at him in seemingly genuine pain. 'Right. Sorry. What were the questions again?'

'Is he single?'

'Yes.' He was pretty certain on that one. Ethan was married to the job: no time for a Mrs Hardy and five kids. He wondered if he should mention that now.

'Own place?'

'Yes.' One-hundred per cent certain: Lofty had been there. 'It's quite big,' he added, before hearing how that sounded and wondering if Tiffany was one of those women who liked to pick up on double entendres.

'Is he gay?' Apparently not. Another plus point for her.

'No?' He was unable to prevent the uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Tiffany deflated in front of his eyes. 'Why are you saying it like that?'

'Like what?'

'Like you think he might be?'

'I don't! He's… not gay. Probably.' When that wasn't enough, he said, 'Well he's never made a pass at me.'

'Why would that prove anything?' Tiffany gave him a cursory look over which did nothing for his ego. 'So much for you being useful. Remind me why I'm friends with you?'

Max stayed silent, because he hadn't been aware that they _were_ friends. A smoking-buddy didn't make for a lifelong bond and if he was honest, he found Tiffany intimidating. She'd crashed into the department at one-hundred miles an hour and, a month later, still didn't seem to be braking. Even now, as she puzzled over the dilemma she'd created for herself, he could feel her mind racing, hunting out solutions. She was exhausting.

Which rather begged the question why she'd set her sights on Ethan. Max didn't think there was a more unlikely pair in the entire department, unless you counted Francesca and himself, which he didn't, not any more. He was all order and anxiety and British-bumblyness; she was chaos and confidence and LA –swagger. She'd eat him alive, which might be amusing to watch but wouldn't do anybody any favours, least of all the ED. He should say something.

'How do you think he feels about handcuffs?'

Max inhaled when he didn't mean to and broke into a fit of coughing he hadn't experienced since he was an amateur teen smoker. 'What?' he managed eventually. 'Ethan? I think… not.' He refrained from asking why as he didn't think he was prepared for those mental images. Trying to turn the conversation to safer territory, he said, 'Can't you just talk to him?'

Tiffany gave him a doubtful look. 'You think that would work?'

'Always does for me.' He gave a triumphant grin which faltered as she continued to look at him, unimpressed.

'Which is why you're single, right?' Stubbing out her cigarette, she stood up. 'Talking, yeah?'

'Talking.' He gave a nod which he wasn't sure he believed in. It was a safer step than whatever depraved plans she'd half cooked-up, but he wasn't sure it would work, or, if it did, whether it was a good idea. At least with talking, Ethan might have half a chance to escape.

Finishing his cigarette, Max wondered when he'd begun approaching relationships, even other people's, with an escape route in mind. Ruffling his hair, he went inside, hoping for a distraction.

* * *

'She was found by a member of the public,' Tess filled Fran in on the way to cubicle ten. 'No ID and her English isn't good. The police brought her in.'

Great. 'Have we got an interpreter?'

'We're working on it. We think she's from eastern Europe.'

'And medically speaking?' Fran checked, focusing in upon the thing she could actually do.

'Lacerations to her feet – she wasn't wearing any shoes.' Tess acknowledged Fran's wince. 'She hasn't let us examine her properly yet, but from her reactions and slurred speech, I'd guess at some sort of substance abuse.'

Double great: a junkie who didn't speak the lingo. Still, Fran liked a challenge. Pulling back the curtain, she surveyed her next patient.

What Tess hadn't prepared her for was the eyes. Substance abuse came with its own litany of symptoms: weight-loss, pallor, a general lack of care about your appearance. All of that was to be expected. Fran hadn't expected what she saw when she looked into the woman's eyes. Fear. There was no other way of describing it. This woman was terrified of everything, and Fran knew what she was talking about, because looking at her was like looking in the mirror, only worse. Far worse.

Despite the language barrier, Fran went through the usual motions, as much to settle herself as anything else. 'Hello. I'm Doctor Hardy. I'm going to be taking a look at you today. Could you tell us if anywhere hurts?' No response beyond a glance between Fran and Tess, as if the woman was hoping somebody here might speak her language. 'Could you tell us your name?' Still nothing. 'I'm going to take a look at your feet. Is that okay?' In the absence of a reply, she assumed it was fine and had a look.

The soles of the feet were destroyed. There was no other word for it. There was more blood and dirt than skin. It was difficult to say if there was anything embedded in the mess of flesh, and would be until the cuts were properly cleaned, making that a priority. Fran swept her eyes over the rest of the woman's body. Jeans and a man's flannel shirt covered up the rest of her, though it was clear she was emaciated underneath the clothes. As yet, there were no signs of withdrawal, although Fran suspected it wouldn't be long before she was doubled up in pain. Not for the first time in her life, she found it unbelievable that anybody would be this desperate for drugs, desperate enough to walk around in February with no shoes or socks on, risking serious injury. It was a life she simply couldn't imagine.

'We're going to clean up your feet,' she said, unsure if she was talking to Tess, the patient or simply herself. 'We need to see if there's anything in there before we stitch you up.' Glancing at Tess, she said, 'Where did they find her?'

'The Farmead Estate.'

Of course. Where else?

'Let's get her cleaned up,' Fran said. 'And keep an eye on her.'

Tess nodded. 'I'll have her on half-hourly obs. And we'll chase up the interpreter.'

'Good.' Fran gave one nod before peeling the gloves off and leaving the cubicle. Glancing at her watch, she made some calculations, working out what she could achieve before she had to take her break. There was a patient in cubicle six with a rash who she was waiting on bloods for, and a patient in cubicle seven with a nosebleed which she'd cauterised and was awaiting his final check. It had been a successful morning all-in-all, but with only ten minutes until she had to leave, she wasn't sure she had the time to dedicate to a new patient.

And because time was ticking on, Cal picked this particular moment to come to her with a problem.

'My patient wants a second opinion.'

'So get her one.'

'From a female doctor.'

Fran's eyes flickered up from the blood results she was scanning. 'What have you done?'

'Nothing! God, why does everybody always assume I've done something wrong?' Before she could respond, he explained: 'She's come in complaining of stomach cramps. I've looked her over and there's no real medical explanation beyond the obvious fact she's bleeding-'

'Yeah, okay, Cal.' Interrupting him before he could become too graphic, she said, 'So why does she want a second opinion?'

'She thinks, as a man, I could never understand the intense pain she's going through and a woman would be more sympathetic.' He shrugged. 'So I thought of you, darling sister.'

Fran gave a small snort: sympathy wasn't something she was known for. 'Make a referral to obs and gynae.'

'She's refusing to leave until we do something.'

'Do what?'

'I don't know. She's mentioned a hysterectomy several times. Just come and have a look at her, Fran.'

'Because you've made her sound so attractive,' she muttered, before adding, 'I can't anyway. I'm about to go on my break.'

'It would only take a couple of minutes.'

'I can't. I… need to be somewhere else.'

Before Cal could ask more, there was a scream from the cubicles, and Lofty came bouncing out of the curtains, hands held high.

'I swear I did nothing,' he began as Fran reached him. 'I was just going to wash her feet and she freaked out.'

If Lofty didn't look so shocked, Fran might have suspected him to be lying; the woman looked petrified, hunched up one end of the bed, her eyes even wider than before. In between the animalistic cries, she was talking in a language that Fran couldn't even recognise, let alone make out any of the words in. What was clear was that Lofty was not the person for this job.

'Okay, calm down,' she said now, hearing herself sounding awkward and insincere. 'It's alright.'

'I didn't do anything,' Lofty said again as Tess arrived on the scene. With him outside the cubicle, the woman seemed to calm herself again, her breathing slowing.

Tess glanced at Fran. 'Shall I get a female nurse?'

Fran nodded grimly, studying the woman's face. Let's give her a mild sedative. And get that interpreter. There's something going on here.' Of that she was certain and if she had more time, she'd be digging down into it. Right now, though, her time was limited. 'Get her cleaned up and I'll be back to check on her in a bit.'

Turning from the cubicle, she came face to face with Cal again. 'I've already said I can't,' she reminded him.

'Five minutes.'

'I don't have five minutes.'

'Take your break later. I'm not asking much.'

'I'm busy.'

'Doing what? You can spare five minutes-'

Losing her patience, Fran snapped, 'I've got a scan in five minutes.'

Her words were like gunshots. Heads whipped around from whatever else they were doing, Francesca Hardy's pregnancy still gossip-worthy enough to distract. For that moment, she was the focus of everybody within earshot, and she hated it, and hated Cal for forcing it from her.

To his credit, he at least looked sheepish. 'I… didn't know.'

She hadn't told him so of course he hadn't known. She had to remind herself not to lose her temper with him for something that wasn't his fault.

'Do you… do you want me to come with you, or…?'

'No.' She could imagine nothing worse than Cal's presence in the room. 'I'm fine on my own. I'll be back soon. I'll… look at your patient then if you need me to.'

Turning, she thought the worst was over; when she came back, there'd be another crisis, new gossip, something else to distract the vampires of the department.

Walking slap bang into Max wasn't part of the plan.

'Sorry.' The apology was automatic

'My fault.' He stared down at her, leaving her in no doubt that he'd heard what she'd said. She rarely studied him like this, spent her shifts all but ignoring his existence. Now, the main things she noticed were that he hadn't shaved and he looked tired. She could relate to at least half of that, but relating to him wasn't part of the plan either.

Sidestepping him, she continued on her way to obs and gynae.

* * *

Robyn had been talking for a long time. Max wasn't sure quite how long, but he did know that he'd been on his break for more time than was technically allowed, and he'd smoked more cigarettes than were strictly good for him. Escaping for a sneaky fag had been his way of avoiding Robyn; he hadn't counted on her following him out here.

'I can't believe she hasn't even asked if you want to go along. I bet she would never even have told you. Seriously, given that she's obviously keeping the baby, it's about time you asked her what happens when it's born.'

This had been the general theme of Robyn's complaints. Max hadn't thought there was much to say about Francesca's 'secret' scan, but Robyn was finding it. In many ways, the pregnancy was useful to his step-sister in that she now had a reason to dislike the doctor apart from a general feeling that she was impolite. She could have that gift for free, Max thought; he'd never had a desire to dislike Francesca, yet it was happening anyway.

'I'd have thought she'd be all over maintenance payments. I'm surprised she hasn't got you paying for her maternity wardrobe.'

'Robyn,' he roused himself enough to say, 'she's not really like that.' He didn't think. From the little he knew of her, he suspected she wasn't. Money didn't seem to be on Francesca's radar.

'And you'd know this because?' Robyn barely paused before saying, 'Exactly. You never even asked her whether she was keeping the baby or not-'

'Yeah, I did.'

'-which I know is pretty obvious now, but… What?'

He wished he could have enjoyed silencing her more. 'I said, I did. Ask her.'

'When?''

'Christmas.

'That was months ago!'

'One month,' he said, shrugging, knowing it made little difference.

'Why didn't you say?'

'You didn't ask?' he said hopefully, before dropping his gaze in response to her glare; nothing could be further from the truth. It was practically all she had been asking up until the point when it had become clear what Francesca's decision had been. Well, what one of them had been, anyway.

'So you are speaking, then.'

'Not exactly.' Not unless you counted awkward pleasantries whenever they bumped into each other in the department, which was far more often than he thought she'd have liked.

'You're having a baby together, you better start speaking.'

'Not exactly.'

'Will you stop saying that? What does it even mean?'

'It means she's having the baby adopted.' He spoke flatly, detached, as if he didn't care. Perhaps he didn't; he wasn't sure anymore.

Robyn's feelings were all too clear. 'She's what? Can she even do that? Is that even legal?'

'Adoption is pretty legal, yeah.'

She gave him a smack, which he felt was undeserved. 'I meant without your input. It's your baby too.'

He shrugged. 'Maybe it's not.'

'You think somebody else was stupid enough to sleep with Francesca Hardy?'

No. Or at least, he didn't believe she'd lied to him. That baby was his biologically, but legally? Max had no idea, had never had to have an idea about something like this. Idle Googling hadn't got him very far because he hadn't even known what to type in. There was a failing of the modern education system, he thought: no lessons in how to find out where you legally stood in relation to the baby conceived from a one-night-stand.

'And you've sat on this for a _month_?' Robyn remained incredulous. 'Aren't you going to do anything?'

'Such as?'

'Talk to her? Convince her to think again? Change her mind?' When he didn't reply, she looked even more alarmed. 'Are you seriously going to let her just give your baby away?'

'I don't know! Probably.' As Robyn seemed lost for words, he added, 'What? She's right. This would be a… huge mistake. We can't have a baby together. We're not even friends.'

'But what's the alternative? Offloading the kid onto social services?' Robyn looked disgusted, and he knew why; in the time between Robyn's mother dying and Max's mother picking up the pieces, Robyn's father hadn't been a text-book parent. Social services had been a threat on the horizon, one which still seemed to haunt his step-sister all these years later.

He shrugged again. 'Maybe. It's probably for the best. I'm… I'm not ready to be a parent. It's fine,' he insisted.

Robyn scrutinised him carefully. 'Yeah. That's why you've been drinking every night since Christmas, right?' Her voice softening, she said, 'I know you don't want this, Max. When are you going to do something about it?'

He didn't know. He wasn't as certain as Robyn was, wasn't convinced that Francesca's decision wasn't the right decision, the decision which needed making in lieu of the ones he wasn't. He lived in a glorified student house. He worked a minimum-wage job, borrowed money from his step-sister for beer and still occasionally got ID'd. He wasn't father-material. That baby deserved so much better than a dad who couldn't cope and parents who couldn't exchange a civil word. Max knew what it felt like to be that kid, and his parents had once upon a time been in love, crazily so if his memories were anything to go by. It made no sense to him now: Annabel Miller and Tony Walker could hardly have been more different. But for a time they'd had it, and it still didn't stop it hurting when it had fallen apart and his dad had buried himself in France. Max wouldn't wish that on anybody, least of all his own flesh and blood. As decisions went, it was better than erasing the baby from all existence.

Finishing his fourth cigarette, he dropped it and ground it out. 'We should go back in.'

Robyn seemed about to protest, then stopped. Max wondered how bad he must look to silence her twice in one day.

* * *

Fran had been gone forever. Or near enough to forever, anyway, in Cal's opinion. In the meantime, his patient was still sitting in a cubicle, taking up space, moaning about mankind. Lily had turned her nose up at his request for help ('She's got menstrual cramps. Discharge her and treat somebody ill.'), so he hadn't even broached it with Mrs Beauchamp. Fran was his only hope. This scan business was taking ages.

It had just crossed his mind that maybe something was wrong with his sister when something distracted him. Or _someone_ to be more accurate. Tiffany Gray was no less disarming in her paramedic's uniform than she was in her jeans. There was something about the way she walked which suggested all manner of things, not least that the promise in her eyes would be more than upheld. Leaning against the reception desk, coffee cup in hand, she was sharing a joke with Noel, who stared at her as if he'd never seen anything quite like her before. Cal could identify.

Still, he was always available to be distracted and she seemed like a very good distraction, so he abandoned his latest patient's notes and bounded over to her, just in time to hear her laugh unconvincingly at Noel's riposte.

'What am I missing?' Cal ventured. 'What's the joke?'

Tiffany flashed him a look. 'Wouldn't you like to know?'

Cal found he actually did want to, but wouldn't admit to it. Never appear over-keen: that was the secret to success. Instead, he fell back on routine small-talk. 'So how are you finding Holby?'

'Cold.' She gave a grin. 'Like, do you guys ever see the sun?'

'I think it appears briefly around two in the afternoon on the twenty-second of June,' he countered, and was gratified to see something more sincere cross her features than Noel had elicited. 'Where is it you're from?'

'California. LA.'

'And you came here?' Why would anyone exchange sandy beaches and blazing sunshine for the grey buildings and sullen drizzle of Holby? Come to think of it, how would someone from LA even know of somewhere like Holby? Cal found his curiosity suddenly piqued by more than Tiffany's smile and curves.

She shrugged. 'What can I say? I make terrible decisions.' For one moment she held his stare. Then, abruptly, addressing everybody around the reception desk, she said, 'So what do you do for fun around here?'

'Well, we… go to the pub,' Noel said, hastily, lamely. 'And we…' He cast around for some input. Louise rolled her eyes, done with the paramedic. Cal could guess that Tiffany wasn't a woman's woman. Which was fine. He was perfectly okay with that.

Seizing an opportunity, he said, 'What would you suggest?'

There was a moment when Tiffany seemed to be contemplating her answer and when she did that, it was like all the Californian sun was trained through her. Cal basked in it for seconds, before, abruptly, it was shut down.

'We're going to the pub tonight,' Iain said. 'That should be enough fun after the day we're having.' If Cal wasn't so very sure that they were all grown-ups in a workplace, he might have thought Iain was telling Tiffany off.

Whatever it was, like that, Tiffany's attention was taken away from Cal. 'Spoilsport,' she said, marginally disgruntled, but leaned up off of the desk and followed Iain's lead. 'Catch you all later.'

Cal watched her go.

'Please tell me you've got rid of that patient.' Fran jerked him back into reality. 'Standing out here gawping at women. I'm guessing you have nothing better to do?'

When his sister had reappeared, he wasn't sure; long enough ago to witness his unsuccessful flirting with Tiffany. Putting his big brother head on now, he asked, 'Everything okay?'

'Yes.'

'I meant with the-'

'And I said yes.' Fran closed the conversation down. 'So do you need me to look at this woman or not?'

Cal nodded and followed her into cubicles. It was always easier to agree with Fran.

* * *

Four patients had been treated and discharged. Two had been sent upstairs for further treatment. One had been sent packing when it turned out that his acute stomach pains were wind. Cal's patient had finally gone away triumphantly clutching her referral to a consultant. Fran had achieved a lot so far today.

Yet there was still the mystery of cubicle ten. Three hours later, the woman had been cleaned and stitched up and was basically fit to go home. The trouble was that nobody had any idea where that home was, who the woman was or of anybody they could contact. Given the way she'd been brought in, discharging her wasn't an option, but leaving her in a cubicle, a desperately needed cubicle, wasn't much of an option either. So far, Fran had chosen not to make a decision, which was unlike her. The only argument she could make against that, and against Mrs Beauchamp if and when she showed an interest, was that, until an interpreter arrived, here was the only place for the woman.

'Francesca.' Tess's voice was heavy.

'I know.' Fran nodded. 'She's fit, she's healthy, we've treated her.' All of the things which usually made it easy to discharge a patient. Being sentimental wasn't Fran's way; she didn't know what had got into her today.

Running a hand over her face, she said, 'Let me take another look at her.' She didn't know why. There was nothing she'd missed that would change things, no mystery illness which would enable them to admit her properly. It just seemed like something that needed to happen, so she got, somewhat wearily, to her feet.

'Are you sure you're okay?' Tess asked. When Fran shot her a questioning look, she added, 'You look ever so tired.'

'I'm fine.' Forcing the barriers up again, Fran picked up her stethoscope and headed to cubicle ten.

The woman was calmer now, a result of the sedative and the absence of men in her treatment. She gave Fran a wide-eyed stare before seemingly recognising her.

'I'd like to take another look at you,' Fran said, vaguely gesturing with the stethoscope. 'Is that okay?' No real response; no lack of consent. It sat badly with her but she saw no other option. As she put the stethoscope in her ears, she said, 'And still no word on the interpreter?'

'They'll get here when they can.'

Of course. Moving on from listening to the woman's chest, Fran checked her radial pulse, mainly for something to do rather than for any real reason. Her vital statistics were all good, Robyn had gone a stellar job on tidying up the wound on her foot, and the woman didn't even have so much as a raised temperature. This was all just killing time, and Fran didn't know why she was so bothered.

'What's that?'

Fran blinked at Tess's question. 'What's what?'

'That.' Tess gestured towards the wrist Fran was holding.

Fran looked and wondered how she hadn't noticed it before. A neat indented ring encircled the woman's wrist. It didn't look painful, but it didn't look comfortable either.

Frowning, Fran tried to keep her voice calm and low. 'Is it the same on the other side?'

Tess gently slid the woman's sleeve up, before nodding.

'It looks like…'

'Handcuff marks.' Tess nodded. 'But the police didn't cuff her.'

'Old?' Fran suggested.

Tess's eyes flew to the woman's and then back to Fran. 'Shall we take this outside?'

Fran followed the nurse, even as she wondered why they were leaving the patient; it wasn't as though she could understand what they were saying, after all. This was more habit than anything else.

Outside the cubicle, Tess said in a lowered voice, 'I know this sounds unlikely…'

Fran raised her eyebrows. 'But?'

'I did attend a course on detecting the signs of human trafficking a few months ago.' Tess left the comment hanging in the air for a few seconds before adding, 'It would fit.'

It did sound unlikely, but lots of things did. 'Unlikely' didn't mean impossible, and in the world of emergency medicine, Fran had learnt not to dismiss anything. Besides which, this was Tess Bateman, somebody whose professional opinion Fran valued highly. She had to at least give it some credence.

It didn't change the basic fact though. 'We need that interpreter.'

Tess nodded. 'Yes. I'll… give them another call.'

* * *

It was probably best that Max give up counting the number of cigarettes he'd had today. He'd just disposed of his second packet, although neither had been full to begin with. Given how badly he'd done so far, he figured he may as well carry on. Tomorrow was another day after all.

He didn't know why today seemed so difficult. The hangover was one thing, but he'd had them before. Admittedly he hadn't had such a thumping headache before on a day when he had to work. He didn't know what had got into him last night; Lofty had backed off when midnight rolled around, whilst Max had just drunk straight through. It had felt like no time at all had passed between his head hitting the pillow and waking up this morning. He might even have been slightly drunk when he began his shift. He definitely wasn't now.

It wasn't just the drink though. It was why he'd felt the need to get quite so hammered on a weeknight, and he still wasn't sure he knew the reason for that. That was something he'd have to spend time and energy poring over and he didn't have the heart for that right now. He had a suspicion he knew where it might end, anyway, and he didn't want to face it just yet.

So nicotine was the answer for now, no matter what the question was. Plus it afforded him the opportunity to escape from under the eyes of the many women of the ED who had a reason to judge him. All he had to do was hack Connie Beauchamp off and he'd have collected the full set, a competition he didn't want to win. Smoking seemed the safest option.

A red Alfa Romeo screeched to a halt outside the ED and a man got out. A conversation was conducted loudly in a language Max couldn't begin to identify, let alone understand, between the man and the driver of the car. As it dragged on, Max watched, before finally getting involved.

'Mate, you can't park there,' he called.

The man looked at him, frowning.

'That area needs to be kept clear for ambulances.' Gesturing, Max shrugged. 'There's a car park over there.'

A few sentences more and the car pulled away, just in time to make way for an ambulance. The man crossed over after it and, in only lightly-accented English, said, 'I'm looking for my girlfriend.'

'Has she been brought in?'

'She's gone missing. I thought I should check.'

It seemed a reasonable enough request. 'If you go in and ask at the desk, they'll be able to help you.'

The man nodded slowly. 'Thank you.'

Cigarette finished, Max slouched back inside a few minutes later.

'Where have you been?' Robyn demanded within seconds of him reappearing. Then, wrinkling her nose up, she added, 'You stink. How many have you smoked today?'

He ignored her. 'I didn't know anybody would miss me. What needs doing?'

'Take these notes back to reception.' His step-sister handed him some folders. Then, in a concerned tone, she said, 'You do know getting drunk and smoking is not the way to deal with this, right?'

'Who's drunk?' He held his arms wide in an expression of obliviousness as he walked away from her. All he needed was for Tess to hear that and send him home with a written warning. Suddenly, his job seemed quite important, given his complete lack of a love-life or functional life in general. Losing that wouldn't help anybody.

Reception was its usual self: barely contained chaos. Max waited for Louise to finish talking to the man he'd spoken to outside; giving patient records to Noel without his colleague's express knowledge was a recipe for disaster, if only to maintain peaceful relations in the department.

'I heard you very clearly, sir, but I cannot confirm or deny if your girlfriend is in the department. If you'll leave your name, I can investigate further,' Louise said. 'Now if you can move along…'

The man seemed about to argue before Louise gave him one of her special glares and he moved along as desired. Max handed over the files and was about to make his way back into the department.

Then he felt a hand fall on his shoulder.

'Hello again.' The man gave him a smile.

'Hey. How's your girlfriend?'

'They won't tell me if she's here. I don't suppose you could…'

'Oh, mate…' Max pulled a face. 'It's not really my job…'

'…It's just that she doesn't speak English very well and if she is here, she might be quite distressed.' The man shrugged a little hopelessly. 'I wouldn't normally ask but…'

Max paused for a long moment. This was outside of his remit; liaising with patients' families was not even buried away in the fine print of his job description. Pushing trolleys and sorting laundry was what he was here for. He should walk away.

The man's story rang a bell though. Here he was, trying his best to help someone out, only to find doors slammed shut in his face. There was something Max recognised. Besides which, the description of a distressed woman barely speaking English was hard to ignore.

'I… might know where she is.'

'Can I see her?'

The hesitation was shorter this time, even as he glanced over his shoulder. Any claim he was unaware how forbidden this was died as he did that; if something went wrong…

'Come with me.' Leading the way into the department, Max hoped he wasn't being dumb.

* * *

'Doctor Hardy.'

Fran reluctantly lifted her head to look her boss in the eye. Connie Beauchamp raised her eyebrows before saying, 'Cubicle ten?' As Fran opened her mouth, the clinical lead continued. 'How long has she been here?'

'A few hours.'

'Is there anything else that needs treating?'

'No.'

Connie gave one nod. 'Then let's get her discharged and treat somebody who needs our help. We are not social services, Doctor Hardy.'

She was right, of course. There was nothing more they could do for the woman, even if Tess's hunch turned out to be true. That was a job for the police and for social services, neither of whom Fran had contacted yet. Without a testimony from the woman in her own words, she saw little point in disturbing other vital, over-stretched services. It didn't excuse her allowing the woman to take up valuable ED space in the meantime.

Even so, it bothered her, turning the woman out into the world, and she didn't know why. Sighing, she ran her hands over her face and prepared herself to do _something_.

'We can contact social services,' Tess said. Fran blinked, having been unaware that the nurse was standing nearby and had heard Connie's directive. As far as Fran could tell, there was little love lost between the two strong women in the department, and getting caught in the cross-fire wasn't on her list of things to do that day. Tess's words had some comfort though: they could do something.

Fran was about to nod when the door opened with a bang, making them both jump. Max, standing in the doorway, winced.

'Sorry. Didn't mean it to be that dramatic.'

'Can we help you, Max?' Tess asked, sounding frustrated with the porter. Yet another reason to trust Tess's judgements: she saw Max Walker for the clumsy idiot he was.

'There's an interpreter in reception, says somebody asked for her?'

Exchanging a glance with Fran, Tess said simply, 'Thank you, Max,' before hurrying out to reception to collect the person Fran was already thinking of as their salvation.

Leaving her and Max alone. Again. She didn't know how this kept happening. The one good sign was that he seemed equally as uncomfortable as she was. The best thing would be that she could ignore his presence entirely.

'You alright?'

Of course. He'd have to ruin it, draw attention to himself, to what had passed between them. At Christmas, she'd said it would all be over by June, and she'd meant that to sound comforting. Today's scan had marked the halfway mark, a milestone on this longest of journeys. It should have helped. Instead, she was thinking how far away it all seemed. Especially if Max was insistent upon being like this. On being Max.

Standing up, she picked up the notes of the woman in cubicle ten and mustered up her politest smile. 'Fine thank you.' Then she brushed past him, keen to move onto the next thing. It wasn't lost on her how much he reeked of tobacco.

Anya the interpreter was young, brisk and ruthlessly efficient. Fran took an instant liking to her.

'Without knowing quite where she's from, this could be difficult,' Anya explained in virtually accentless-English as they led her towards cubicle ten. 'There are similarities between languages though, so we'll see.'

'Any help you could give us,' Tess insisted. 'Even just so we can contact somebody for her.'

Anya nodded, 'We'll see. You have some concerns?'

Fran glanced at Tess before saying, 'There are some suspicious marks on her wrists. We believe there may be some abuse in her background.'

Anya gave yet another nod, as if this was obvious, par for the course, something she dealt with on a regular basis. Maybe it was, a thought which Fran didn't much like. The sooner they had some answers the better. She pulled back the cubicle curtain.

Embarrassment was the first emotion which swept over her. Here they'd been, cursing the interpreter service for not sending somebody sooner, and when Anya had finally made it here, they'd offered up an empty bed. It reflected poorly upon them as a department that they couldn't keep track of their patients.

'Well, she was here…' Tess was saying, frowning. 'Let me speak to somebody. Perhaps she's been taken somewhere else.'

Without either Fran or Tess being aware? Unlikely. Even so, Fran let Tess ask Robyn, Rita and even Lofty if they'd seen the woman, each request met with a shake of the head. Meanwhile, Anya lingered, looking unimpressed.

As if things couldn't get any worse, Max loped by. Naturally.

'What's wrong?'

'The woman in cubicle ten,' Tess explained. 'Have you seen her?'

'The no-English woman?' He at least seemed to realise he was being inappropriate, even if it took glares from all three women. 'I mean… no, I haven't seen her.' Then, just as they'd all lost interest in him, he added, 'Have you asked her boyfriend?'

'Her what?' Fran stared at him.

'Her boyfriend.' Max looked between all of them, apparently lost by this conversation. 'Okay, what have I said that's weird?'

'Who said she had a boyfriend?'

'I thought she didn't speak English,' Anya added in the voice of somebody who wondered if her time was being wasted.

'He did.' Max shrugged. 'He arrived about half an hour ago.'

'And you didn't _say_?' Tess rolled her eyes.

'You were busy. I showed him in and-'

Fran erupted. 'You did what?'

'I showed him in. He was worried about her. What?' Max said as Fran snorted. 'Is it illegal to see your girlfriend now?'

'If we suspect he might actually be her abuser, then yes.' Fran was gratified to see her words hit him squarely between the eyes.

'I'll get onto security,' Tess decided. 'They can't have got far, she can barely walk.'

There was a perfect beat before Max mumbled, 'They've got a car.'

Fran wasn't sure if she'd groaned audibly or not.

'I'll call the police too.' Tess's words were clipped. She gave Max a withering look. 'If I were you, I'd get your story straight and hope nothing happens to her.'

* * *

'Ah, another smoker!'

Cal almost dropped his cigarette in response. It wasn't that his smoking was a secret; he just didn't choose to flaunt it in the same way as other members of the department. Most days he kept his fag breaks to a minimum, although largely in lieu of skiving off in other ways. He expected most people in the department knew of his habit; he just hadn't expected Tiffany to pick up on it quite so soon.

Wrong-footed, he gave a sheepish grin. 'I know, it'll kill me. I'm guessing the City of Angels frowns upon it?'

'It frowns upon most things that are fun.' Tiffany rolled her eyes and slowly, deliberately, produced her own pack of cigarettes which, Cal noted with one glance, were substantially stronger than his own brand of choice. 'So sue me.'

He studied her as she lit her cigarette and took a long drag on it. With her hair piled up on her head and her make-up just about on the legitimate side of professional, there wasn't much to set Tiffany apart from lots of the attractive females who worked at Holby City Hospital. Taken at face value, she was a pretty girl. It was the other stuff which he'd noticed about her which intrigued him: the sultry swagger in her walk, the precise way she curled her lips around the cigarette, the fact that she was well aware he was looking at her now and yet was choosing the precise moment to comment upon it. It was all theatre, an act. That fascinated Cal.

Finally, she said, 'Take a picture, it'll last longer.'

Cal dropped his eyes to the ground. 'I was just…' He tailed off, before finding he did have an ending to that sentence. 'So you find Holby more fun than LA?' He realised he'd stumbled back into the conversation they'd been having earlier. And this time there was no Iain to interrupt it.

Shrugging, Tiffany breathed out another plume of smoke. 'I make my own fun.'

Cal had no doubt of that. 'And that would be by…?'

There was a pause. Then, 'Are you coming for a drink tonight?'

Cal wasn't sure if it was an invitation, but if it was, he wanted in. 'Sure.'

Tiffany opened her mouth.

A cry came from across the car park. Cal reacted instantly, even as it sounded more animal than human. He dropped his cigarette and moved in the direction of the noise, only vaguely aware of Tiffany doing the same behind him. When he saw the woman, he was glad he wasn't alone.

The first thing he noticed was the blood. It was everywhere, unavoidable, across her hands, her clothes, her legs and feet. Following in her wake was a trail, telling everybody where she'd been. It took him several seconds longer to take in that she was shoeless and all she was wearing was a hospital gown. She was one of theirs and something awful had happened.

He had his zip-up jumper off without hesitation, sacrificing yet another hospital issue garment to the gods of emergency medicine. It was freezing out here and the woman was in distress; warming her up would only ever be a good thing.

Yet she shied away as he went near her.

'Okay, let me just take a look at you,' he coaxed, even as she resisted his efforts to come any nearer to her. She continued to cry out so that it only struck him afterwards that she wasn't speaking English. Misery was the universal language, masking all barriers.

'Honey.' Tiffany suddenly broke in, wrenching the jacket from his hands. It was as though she'd transformed into somebody else altogether. Kind, caring, ruthlessly efficient: this seemed more real than anything that had fallen from her lips so far. 'You need to come inside, sweetheart. Will you just let me…?' Like that, she had the jacket around the woman's shoulders, her arm around her waist, before throwing Cal a look. 'Get a wheelchair.'

He did as he was told and within minutes, Tiffany had them inside the ED, where all hell seemed to be breaking loose. Security were swarming the joint, Noel was fielding all manner of questions from Tess, and at the centre of it (of course) was Cal's little sister.

Just as he was about to ask what had happened, she saw him and looked more pleased to see him than he could remember in a long time.

'Oh thank God!' she exclaimed. Then, before he could jump to conclusions, assume she might actually want his expertise, she demanded, 'Where did you find her? And what happened?'

'Car park. She was like this when we found her.' Tiffany fielded the questions. 'She's bleeding from her feet but I don't think all of it is hers.'

A woman with a severe bob narrowed her eyes as she stared at the woman, who hadn't stopped talking this whole time.

'What is it? What's she saying?' Fran demanded, sounding closer to panic than Cal had ever heard her.

After a long pause, the interpreter turned back to Fran and, speaking in a hushed tone, said, 'Alert the police.'

'But we've found her!'

'Alert the police,' the interpreter repeated. 'She says she's killed him. The man who took her. She wants to confess.'

Cal stared at the woman in the wheelchair now. He had no idea what was going on here, how she'd gone from patient to murderer in a few short steps. It sounded unbelievable and he opened his mouth to say as much.

'Let's get her through to cubicles,' Fran made a call, cutting him off. 'She needs her feet re-stitching and dressing.'

As the interpreter relayed that, Cal cut in. 'She's just killed somebody!'

'She's still entitled to basic human rights!' Fran insisted. 'Bring her through,' she instructed Tiffany.

'Wait,' the interpreter put a hand on her sleeve before saying, 'She says you might need these back.'

From underneath Cal's jacket, the woman held out a pair of hospital issue scissors. Cal felt his stomach turn over as he stared at the blood-covered instruments, and saw his sister pale as well.

'I'll get a bag for those.' Tess Bateman, taking charge, said. 'Don't touch them. Get her sorted out before the police speak to her. I'll let them know of the developments.'

As Fran led the way back inside the department, Tiffany just had time to mutter, 'Definitely in need of that drink now.'

Cal nodded mutely. Definitely.

* * *

The silence in the office was broken as Tess joined Francesca and Max.

'The police have found a body,' she explained. 'They believe it's his.'

Max closed his eyes, letting her words sink in. The woman with the bleeding feet, the one who didn't even know how to tell them her own name, was now a suspect in a murder enquiry. More than a suspect if what the interpreter was telling them was true: she had openly admitted her guilt. He didn't know what happened next. A trial, he presumed, prison almost certainly, if not deportation: he doubted somebody who'd been through what she alleged she had, had the necessary papers and documents to enable her to stay in this country, especially after committing such a crime. That woman had run away this morning hoping to begin a new life. And now that wasn't going to happen. Despite himself, he couldn't help feeling like he'd contributed towards that.

Something he suspected he was about to be reminded of from one particular quarter.

'What on earth did you think you were doing?'

He glanced at Francesca. 'I was… trying to help.'

'That's not your job! You have no idea what chaos you've caused.'

He thought that was unfair; it was patently obvious what chaos he'd caused. 'I've said I'm sorry.'

'And that makes it alright? That makes it all better? I can't even…' Francesca flung her arms up and turned away, as if the sight of him was beyond her right now.

Seated behind her desk, Tess spoke in much more reasoned tones, even if they were no kinder. 'There'll be an investigation. We'll have to account for how we allowed a vulnerable patient to leave the department without being formally discharged.'

'I didn't know she was vulnerable.'

'All of our patients are vulnerable!' Francesca retorted. 'They're here because they're sick or injured. We can't just let anybody off the street wander in and take them!'

'He said he was her boyfriend!'

'You can't take people's word for it! Even if he had been, she had a right not to see him. You took that right away from her.'

'I was trying to be helpful. I was… doing what I thought was right.'

'And you were wrong. So deal with it.'

'I think you both need to calm down,' Tess put in at this point, obviously surprised by the venom in the exchange.

Max had seen red by now though, blood red, and he wasn't sure he'd be responsible for his actions anymore. It had been a horrible day, and yes, it had partially been his fault, yes, he'd screwed up royally. But it wasn't as if he'd given the woman the scissors, encouraged her to drive them into her pimp's stomach. He wasn't the killer here.

'I am dealing with it! I've said I'm sorry, I'll take the blame. I can't do much more than that!' Then, tongue running away from him, 'But you might want to look at yourself while we're talking about it. How was I supposed to know what was going on? You didn't tell anybody what was happening.'

Francesca gave him a disgusted look. 'Patient confidentiality? Have you never heard of that?'

'All you had to say was that she was a vulnerable patient! That's all! But you chose to keep it all so secret, not tell anybody. When are you going to get that this isn't all about you?' And he knew they weren't talking about today anymore, and Francesca knew it too.

It was only confirmed when she stalked out of Tess's office and slammed the door shut behind her.

'I don't know what that was about, and I don't want to know,' Tess said. 'But we cannot have scenes like that in the department again.'

'I know.'

'I don't think you do, Max!' He lifted his head to see her looking at him just how he hated being looked at: like he was fifteen and needed telling. 'You might think I haven't noticed, but you've been a mess for weeks. Turning up late, disappearing off on extended breaks, drunk on the job-'

'I wasn't drunk!'

'Well you weren't sober.' Tess shook her head. 'This can't carry on. I've held off because, surprisingly, you're actually good at your job when you're here. But I can't hold off much longer. Today was a disaster.'

'I know.'

Tess stared at him for a long moment. Then she said, 'Go home. Get a decent night's sleep.'

It sounded too easy. 'What about…?'

'Oh it'll still be here tomorrow. But we're all tired. I'll see you tomorrow.'

It was more of a threat than a promise, but he was grateful anyway. A lesser boss might have marched him in front of Connie Beauchamp right here, right now, and he wasn't prepared for that. In the circumstances, he had to thank Tess and leave without slamming the door closed.

Outside stood Lofty, eyes filled with concern. In answer to Max's questioning look, he said, 'Robyn said she wasn't sure if she wanted to slap you or hug you, so I said I'd speak to you.'

The honesty raised a small smile from Max.

'You alright, mate?'

'Yeah, course.'

That Lofty looked doubtful was worrying; Max thought he was better at hiding his melancholy than that. Apparently Tess wasn't the only one who'd noticed that the wheels had been coming off of the Max-mobile for a few weeks now.

'Do you want to go for a drink tonight?' The solution for everything for people of his generation. It would be easy to say yes.

But Max shook his head. 'Better not.'

Falling into step beside him, Lofty nodded. 'Right. So… pizza then?'

Max glanced at his friend and smiled again. 'Yeah, go on then.'

'Got to be ready for The Lodgers' debut tomorrow,' Lofty added chirpily.

Max had forgotten that; signing up to be in an open-mic night had seemed a bad idea at the time, and now, five months later due to several postponements, it only seemed worse. Wearily, he said, 'We're really going with that name?'

'It's a work in progress.' As they reached the staff room, Lofty gave him a clap on the shoulder. 'Robyn told me about Francesca's plans. About the…' He tailed off. 'If you wanted to talk...'

Max cut him off. 'It's fine.' Talking wouldn't change things, least of all Francesca's mind. If he even wanted her to change her mind, which was debatable.

Lofty nodded. 'Okay. But… if you did.' Then, with a final small smile, he said, 'I've got twenty minutes of my shift left. See you at home?'

Max nodded as his friend hurried back to work. Tess was right: this couldn't carry on. He needed to do something, something to take his mind off of everything that had happened in the past few months. He hadn't been himself for a long time, ever since Zoe had left, and he didn't know how he'd let that happen. Being Max Walker was important to him. Women didn't get to define him like this, least of all a woman like Francesca Hardy.

So he made a decision. One night in, one night licking his wounds and doing what Tess wanted him to do. And tomorrow… tomorrow he was finding Max Walker again.

* * *

Ethan wondered if this was the fourth or fifth time he'd heard Cal trot out his version of today's events. Each re-telling had been slightly different, slightly more exaggerated and painted Cal as slightly more heroic. Given how things had turned out, it was in poor taste, but nobody else had voiced their concerns and Ethan needed a break from being the boring one.

'… I mean, there was blood _everywhere_ , we're talking all over her hands, her clothes, her feet. And I said to her-'

'Oh my God, are you still telling this story?' Tiffany cut Cal off without hesitation, reaching across him to retrieve the glass of wine she'd left on the bar for safe-keeping. 'I mean, it's not even like half of it's true!'

Ethan surprised himself by letting out a snort of laughter. Because, yes, she was spot on, but he had never seen anyone else call his brother out on his nonsense before. Watching Cal flail for words was also a highlight of an otherwise rather long day.

'She _was_ covered in blood!'

'Yeah, but you didn't throw her over your shoulder like Superman,' Tiffany countered, calling up the third draft of the story he'd regaled them with this evening. 'And losing that jacket is probably a good thing cause it was disgusting.' Rolling her eyes, she treated Ethan to a fleeting glance. 'God, is he always this full of crap?'

He absolutely one-hundred per cent was, but he expected Tiffany found it much more endearing than he did. She'd been flitting around all evening, floating in and out of their conversations, flashing the odd smile in Ethan's direction, but directing most of her attention at Cal. Naturally. It was the way it always was, and Ethan wasn't sure how he'd react if it was otherwise. Cal was the one who got the laughs and the giggles; Ethan was the wallpaper against which his brother was able to impress. He'd made his peace with it.

Besides, Tiffany's attention was something else. Ethan had only spoken to the paramedic a few times in the weeks she'd been in Holby, most notably in this very pub. At work she was professional, efficient, a very good paramedic. Here, she was all veiled flirtations and secretive glances. It was like being knocked over by a bus, and Ethan thought, on balance, Cal was better placed to take the full impact of that collision. Even the few glances and smiles had left him feeling winded, unable to respond in kind. If Cal was what she wanted, she was welcome to him. Ethan was not going to get involved.

It was raining, again, by the time Ethan left the pub. He pulled the collar on his coat up against the weather and thrust his hands into his pockets, preparing himself for the walk across the car park.

Then he saw her, huddled in a bus stop, her coat in no way a protection against this very British of Februarys. Her hair was standing out in a cloud around her head and she was fiddling with her phone. It was only when it hit the ground for the second time that he stepped in.

'Do you want a lift home?'

Tiffany didn't even look up. 'I'm getting a cab.'

'My car's only over there.'

'It's cool.'

Ethan hesitated. It was clear that Tiffany didn't want him here, for whatever reason, and he was getting soaked to the skin. Droplets of water had found their way past his collar and were snaking their way down his back. It was late and his shift started at nine tomorrow morning. Everything logically suggested he should walk away, get in his car and go home.

'Do you… want me to wait with you?' He gestured at the bench alongside her.

She shrugged. 'Suit yourself.'

It wasn't much of an invitation, but Ethan sat down anyway. What followed was a seemingly endless moment of silence, punctuated by cars crashing through puddles and the occasional burst of noise from the pub door as more people launched themselves out into the downpour.

This was the quietest Ethan had heard Tiffany be. All evening she'd been dazzling, lively, the very heart of the party. She'd tossed her hair and cracked the jokes and glittered. Where all of that energy had gone, Ethan wasn't sure, though he had a horrible feeling it might be connected to him, his inability to pick up on basic social cues. He was uncertain as to why Tiffany was out here, alone, when Cal had seemed more than keen to take her up on her flirting and charms. She should have been snuggled up against his big brother now. Admittedly, that wouldn't end well, for either of them, but Tiffany seemed like a big girl: if anybody could handle Caleb Knight, Ethan would put his money upon the paramedic.

Instead, here she was, and he couldn't help asking, 'Sorry, have I done something wrong?'

It took a moment, but eventually she said, 'No, you're good. You're fine.'

'Because if I did, I'm sorry-'

'You didn't.'

'And if it's Cal, he can be an idiot sometimes.'

Tiffany looked at him then, pure confusion painted across her face in the streetlights. 'What?'

Ethan pressed on. 'He likes the chase, he can sometimes be… funny if…' He tailed off, unsure how to describe the sort of show she'd been putting on for his older brother. There was no flattering way of doing it so he chose not to.

'If what?' she called him out on it, that fire which coursed through her veins coming to the surface again. Then, without waiting for a reply, she followed up with a few more questions. 'And what about Cal? Why would I care what Cal likes?'

Startled by her as ever, Ethan said, 'Well… just that you…' Again, words failed to describe what had happened in the pub this evening.

Tiffany got the hint anyway. 'You think I was…? _Cal_? What the…?'

'Well, I just assumed…'

'You assumed I was flirting with _Cal_? Are you _insane_? It was you.'

'Me?' The response was high-pitched and distinctly un-masculine. Ethan couldn't help that. He knew, Cal was constantly telling him, that he was lacking in certain departments, harmless flirtations being one of them. He just didn't know that he was quite so oblivious.

'Yes! God knows why, I'm clearly useless at it. I should never have listened to Max, I should have gone with plan A.'

Ethan had no idea what Max had to do with any of this, nor really what 'this' was, so he focused upon the easy mystery. 'Plan A?'

'Handcuffs.' So matter of fact. Casting an eye over his wide-eyed face, she said now, 'Oh chill out. You're obviously not into that kind of thing.'

'Handcuffs?'

'Women.' His eyes must have widened even further. 'Relax! You can go back in your closet, your secret's safe with me.'

'But I'm not gay!'

'Oh come on!'

'I'm not!' He cleared this throat as he became alarmingly high-pitched in his protestations. 'I just… didn't know you were flirting with _me_. I… didn't know you… _liked_ me.' Because it seemed like he should say it, he added, 'Sorry.'

Tiffany gave him a long hard look. Then she said, 'You are so British.'

'Thanks?'

'It's not a compliment. Like…' Words seemed to fail her and she merely shook her head again, incredulous at how this had turned out. Ethan could identify with that; he had no idea how this had happened at all.

At length, Tiffany regained enough of her usual vigour to throw him a withering look and say again, 'You thought I liked _Cal_? How dumb do you think I am?'

'I didn't. I just thought…' He wondered what he'd thought. Then, the only explanation he could think of: 'It's usually Cal. Girls like you-'

'Girls like me?'

He winced. 'I meant… women. Beautiful women. They usually like Cal.' He said the last in a quiet voice, embarrassed beyond belief by this conversation and wishing he'd gone straight to his car this evening. This encounter couldn't end well for either of them. He should leave.

Tiffany gave a groaning sigh. 'Oh, alright, there's no need to do the wounded puppy thing. If it means that much to you, I'll go on a date with you.'

A curveball he hadn't expected. 'You'll… what?'

'Don't you want to?' That edge crept back into her voice and forced him to act impulsively, something which gave him a rush he wasn't completely sure he enjoyed.

'Yes!' He didn't think he had much choice, and he found that he sort did want to go on a date with her. He didn't really know why.

'Okay then.' She nodded, defiantly, as if she'd won some kind of argument. 'So we'll go to a gig tomorrow after work then.'

'Okay.' Compliance seemed the easiest move.

'Okay.' She stood up now as a cab pulled up alongside the kerb. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Yes.' He nodded once and watched as she got into the cab and pulled away into the drenched spring evening.

Then he took himself home to replay the evening and wonder what he'd agreed to.

* * *

 ** _Next time: Teenage Kicks_**

 _Ignoring Ethan's attempts to get back to work, Cal said, 'Do I know her?'_

 _'Does it matter?'_

 _'So that's a yes,' Cal said glibly, mind already racing over the possibilities. 'Is it that new nurse Gina? She's very you.'_

 _'What's that supposed to mean?'_

 _'She's… you know… quiet. Nice.' Boring, he added silently, having already dismissed Gina as a possibly conquest of his own. That didn't mean she wouldn't be perfect for Ethan though and really, any woman would be a step up from no woman at all. Despite all the teasing, Cal wanted to see his brother happy. 'It is her, isn't it?'_

 _'No.' Then, before Cal could take a second guess, Ethan said, 'It's Tiffany actually.'_

 _'Tiffany?'_

 _'Yes.'_

 _'Paramedic Tiffany?'_

 _'I'm not sure that's her given name, but yes.' Ethan nodded. 'Is that a problem?'_

 _Cal wasn't sure._

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'Female of the Species' by Space.


	12. Teenage Kicks

' _I need excitement, oh I need it bad, and it's the best I've ever had. I wanna hold her, wanna hold her tight, get teenage kicks right through the night.'_

One day, just one day, Fran wanted to step inside Connie Beauchamp's office and not have to prepare herself for a tongue-lashing. She was sure the room was nice and likely had professionally tasteful decorations. It would be nice to be able to look around instead of focusing her attention on the floor, hoping to draw as little attention to herself as possible.

She supposed one change from the usual routine was that she wasn't in here alone. Having said that, having Max sharing in this misery belied the famous saying; Fran never loved company, miserable or not. He was one of the very last people she'd want to witness this, so she kept her head down and hoped he'd forget she was there.

'Yesterday was a disgrace,' Connie began. Flipping through the notes on her desk, she reeled off a list of all the protocols that had been broken: 'Failing to contact social services. Allowing a patient to remain in the department long after they should have been discharged. Losing the patient without completing the correct paperwork. Failing to inform other members of staff of key suspicions-'

'It wasn't all her fault!' Max put in.

'Oh I'm getting to you, Mr Walker, don't you worry!' Connie snapped. 'Your behaviour was nothing short of idiotic and don't think that this won't be going down on your permanent record. You can thank Tess for the fact that I'm not giving you your notice now.'

Allowing herself a small sidelong glance, Fran saw Max drop his head too, looking like the naughty schoolboy he behaved like most of the time.

'There'll be an enquiry into this, of course,' Connie continued. 'Not to mention the police investigation into the man's death. Given your record, Doctor Hardy, I should issue a written warning.' There was a pause, as if she expected a protest from one or other of them. When it didn't come, she said, 'Get back to work. Both of you.'

Surprised, neither of them moved.

'I said, get back to work,' Connie repeated.

They didn't need a third invitation. It was only as Fran reached the door that Connie said, 'Francesca?'

'Yes, Mrs Beauchamp?'

'I don't want to see you in here again. Is that understood?'

'Yes Mrs Beauchamp.'

The clinical lead turned back to her paperwork and Fran took that as her cue to leave. Outside the office, she took her first real breaths of the day. As reprimands went, it was lacklustre, as if Connie was sick of the sight of her and was going through the motions. It was enough though and Fran needed those few seconds before she headed into the department to remember her resolve: be the very best doctor you can be.

'Francesca, can I borrow you a minute?' Charlie interrupted her personal pep-talk, making it sound as though she'd do him a favour if she went along with him.

'Of course.'

'I've got a boy in cubicles. His friends brought him in after some sort of accident – he's being rather vague. There's some cuts and bruises but nothing substantial. He's claiming intense pain in his side.'

Fran nodded, affirming she'd heard what he was saying. 'I'll check him over.' It sounded routine, the usual fuss a teenager might make when here with his friends rather than the parents who would see through his rubbish. Most likely the main thing that was hurting was his ego, something Fran could identify with.

The teenager in question was one Aaron Donovan, a stereotype of sportswear which failed to look as expensive as it really was. With his cap barely balanced on his head and what looked like several hundred pounds worth of gold around his neck and wrists, Fran had to stifle a groan; these were precisely the sort of patients that wound her up, something she needed to avoid today of all days. His mute friend was equally as mundane and she resolved to pay him as little attention as possible.

'Aaron, this is Doctor Hardy,' Charlie introduced her. 'She'd like to take a look at you.'

Aaron cast his eye up and down her, an unpleasant smirk on his face. 'You can look at me anytime you like, you get me?'

His friend sniggered.

'What's the problem?' Fran cut across them both, aiming for business as usual. His comment suggested that he hadn't yet clocked her growing bump, something she found she was alarmingly pleased by. 'Charlie tells me you're complaining of pain. What happened?'

She found she wasn't much interested in his answer, which was filled with 'you knows' and 'innits' and not much else. Whatever had happened to Aaron, it was clear he didn't want them to know the ins and the outs, and it didn't much matter. He'd had a fall, from a wall of indeterminate height. He hadn't hit his head and there were no broken bones. Charlie had already cleaned and dressed the scrapes down his side and legs, leaving just this pain he was complaining about.

'Can I take a look?' she asked when his rambling account had come to an end, immediately regretting her choice of words as his friend sniggered again. 'Let me know if this hurts,' she added as she pressed on his right-hand-side, trying not to hope that it did.

It took a few seconds of pressing before he let out a moan which sounded realistic enough, if a little overdramatic. Fran inspected the sight of injury carefully. There were no visible signs of trauma to the area, no broken skin or bruising. Most likely he'd pulled a muscle doing whatever idiotic thing teenagers did to end up in situations like this.

Still, today wasn't the day to cut corners.

'Okay, there's some tenderness there,' she agreed as she pulled his hoodie back down again. 'I'd like to send you for a CT scan to see if there's any damage to any of the tissue.'

'What's that mean?' Aaron demanded.

'It's a scan. It's harmless,' Fran explained as patiently as she could manage. 'It'll check if there's any trauma in that area beyond minor bruising.'

'Can we contact your parents?' Charlie asked, in the tone of somebody who had asked this several times before. 'You're under sixteen and we need a parent or guardian here.'

'Nah, mate, they're not around.'

'You mean they're not at home or they're away?' Fran asked. When Aaron didn't reply, she said, 'We can just use your medical records, Aaron, if you'd prefer.'

Somewhat grumpily, the teenager handed over his mum's mobile number. Fran suspected that it being eleven o'clock on a school day was fuelling his desire for his parents to remain clueless over where he was, but decided not to dwell upon it as she left Aaron in the cubicle and headed to order the CT scan.

'I can make the call if you like,' Charlie offered, following her.

'It's fine.'

'Actually…' Lofty sidled up alongside them. 'You couldn't come and have a look at my patient could you?'

She didn't put the phone down immediately. 'Isn't there anybody else you can ask?'

'They're all busy.'

 _So am I._ 'What's wrong?'

'She fainted at school this morning after PE. Sats are normal, blood pressure is on the low side.'

All to be expected in a standard teenage girl faint. Fran could barely believe the school had seen fit to bring her into the hospital, let alone that Lofty was giving it time. She wondered whether everybody else had already shrugged this particular patient off, seeing it for the time-waste that it was.

Phone still clamped to her ear, she said, 'Can't it wait?'

'She's… rather thin.' Lofty looked awkward. 'I… I really think she might need a doctor to check her over.'

'I can make the call,' Charlie reminded her.

Fran tried not to appear too irritated as she handed the receiver over to Charlie and followed Lofty. It seemed the department had been overtaken by teenagers skipping school today. This one was at least accompanied by an adult, a 'pastoral team assistant' according to her badge, and Emily's mum was on her way.

Fran had prepared herself for a slim teenage girl, perhaps rather pale because of the fainting episode. When she laid eyes on Emily, she wondered how Lofty had chosen the phrase 'rather thin'. She wondered how nobody else seemed to have noticed what was obvious to her within seconds of setting foot inside the cubicle. This girl was sick. Really sick.

'Emily? I'm Doctor Hardy.' The girl conjured up a smile from somewhere. It looked entirely out of place on her drawn face, yet Fran was struck by how charming it was. 'I'd like to have a look at you if that's alright.'

Emily nodded. 'But I'm fine,' she insisted. 'Aren't I, Mrs Green? I'm fine now.'

'Let the doctor have a look at you,' Mrs Green said, rather more firmly than Fran might have expected her to. Glancing at her, she wondered if the pastoral team assistant wasn't more clued up than she appeared.

Placing her stethoscope on Emily's chest, Fran stalled for time. 'Is this the first time this has happened, Emily?' she asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

'Yes.' The girl nodded. 'I skipped breakfast this morning.'

That was almost certainly true, but was only a tiny part of the full story. Listening to her heart, Fran was gratified to find it was beating away strongly, almost carelessly, as if the shell it was stored within wasn't withering away. The pulse was less strong in her wrists and Emily's hands were cold even given the time of year.

'BP was eighty-five over fifty-four,' Lofty reported quietly as Fran scribbled her findings down on Emily's notes.

She nodded. 'Emily, I'd like to check your weight, if that's alright.'

Something akin to real hatred flashed across the girl's face. 'Why?'

'In cases like this, we like to check everything out,' Fran replied. 'Fainting isn't uncommon in girls your age, but we like to do everything properly.'

The indecision on her face was familiar to Fran. She was clearly a good girl, a nice girl, one who liked to do as she was told. Yet there was the other side of her, the one which was more anorexia than herself by now, which told her to refuse, to kick up a fuss, to hide what was really going on here. Fran knew what that was like: it was how she'd been behaving for the past few months.

'Might as well make the most of a morning out of school,' Mrs Green said, faux-jovially.

Reluctantly, Emily nodded.

'Lofty, can I leave you to do that?' Fran asked. 'Mrs Green, would you like to get a coffee? Is that alright, Emily?'

The girl nodded again.

'I'll get Robyn to help,' Lofty said, ducking out of the cubicle. Fran didn't know if he was scared of teenage girls in general or this one in particular, but she had to admit his move was a good one, and one she should have thought of. Kicking herself, she resolved to make up for it by asking the right questions now as she led Mrs Green away from her charge to the refreshment facilities.

'Has Emily always been so thin?' As openers went, it was less subtle than she might have hoped.

Mrs Green gave a heavy sigh. 'No. And yes, it has been rather fast, and yes, we are concerned. We wouldn't ordinarily bring a student in for fainting.'

As Fran had suspected. 'Have you raised this with her or her parents?'

'We've – I've – had some conversations with Emily.'

'And?'

The woman shook her head, giving a smile. 'She's very convincing. She's been training for a five-k, so she thinks some of the weight loss is due to that. And she's been studying hard so she sometimes forgets to eat lunch. She's a good girl, works hard, gets good grades. Text book, right?' In response to Fran's questioning look, she said, 'It's an all-girls' school. We've seen this sort of thing before.'

'And her parents?'

It was clear Mrs Green was struggling to find the right words. 'They're… hard-working too. Her dad's a barrister up in London, spends a lot of time away from home. Her mum's a lawyer here. No-one's ever said as much, but I think Emily's left to her own devices a lot.'

The perfect breeding ground for anorexia nervosa. 'Has this ever happened before?'

'Not that we're aware of. To be honest, when I got the message from the medical bay, I was almost relieved. I've been trying to push this issue for weeks, but without enough evidence…' She shrugged and sighed heavily. 'I know we sound rather useless.'

Ordinarily, Fran would have agreed with her. It was the sort of problem she'd have expected a school to have picked on, to have dealt with in lieu of Emily's own parents paying any attention. Yet she was reminded of her own misery at school and how well she'd hidden it. She'd given nobody an opportunity to notice there was a problem, let alone help her fix it. She suspected Emily was even less reluctant to engage. And Mrs Green seemed genuinely concerned.

'So what's the plan?' the pastoral team assistant asked, cradling her cup of coffee.

'I'd like to refer her to the psych team,' Fran admitted, gratified that Mrs Green didn't look horrified at that suggestion. 'With her low blood pressure and, I suspect, low BMI, she's certainly a case for further investigation.'

'I'd have thought one look at her made her a case for further investigation,' Mrs Green remarked drily. 'Her mother's on her way here, or said she was.'

'We can chase that up. We need parental permission for the referral.'

'And Emily's permission?'

Fran allowed herself a small sigh. 'That might be the difficult part.'

* * *

'Nibbles.' Cal paused long enough to see Ethan grit his teeth in irritation at the childhood nickname. Satisfied that he'd prompted a reaction, he continued with, 'So, a little bird told me that you're going on a date?'

Another point scored as Ethan flashed him a look. 'Who told you that?'

'I can't reveal my sources,' Cal replied, not wanting to admit that his source was Honey the barista who seemed to have the kind of inside information about this place that could blast it all wide open. 'So it's true? Come on, Ethan! Who's the lucky lady?'

'Your source let you down on that?' Ethan fired back.

She had, actually, even though Cal suspected that she was well aware who he was seeing. That Honey had been quite so discreet suggested that there was a secret here somewhere which Cal intended to get to the bottom of. His little brother dating was news in itself; if the woman in question worked alongside them, it was worthy of the front page.

Ignoring Ethan's attempts to get back to work, Cal said, 'Do I know her?'

'Does it matter?'

'So that's a yes,' Cal said glibly, mind already racing over the possibilities. 'Is it that new nurse Gina? She's very you.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'She's… you know… quiet. Nice.' _Boring_ , he added silently, having already dismissed Gina as a possibly conquest of his own. That didn't mean she wouldn't be perfect for Ethan though and really, any woman would be a step up from no woman at all. Despite all the teasing, Cal wanted to see his brother happy. 'It is her, isn't it?'

'No.' Then, before Cal could take a second guess, Ethan said, 'It's Tiffany actually.'

'Tiffany?'

'Yes.'

'Paramedic Tiffany?'

'I'm not sure that's her given name, but yes.' Ethan nodded. 'Is that a problem?'

Cal wasn't sure. He'd like for it not to be, because Ethan actually looked excited, which made a change. 'I didn't know you… Or that she… Are you sure it's a good idea?' The last was blurted out before he could stop himself.

'Why wouldn't it be?'

'Well, she's… quite intense. And…' He searched for the right words which wouldn't sound inappropriate. There were dozens of words he could use to describe girls like Tiffany Gray, few of them complimentary, most of them based purely upon a gut instinct. There was no evidence to suggest she wasn't a perfectly lovely person, whose flirting was just another way she expressed her zest for life and would make his brother the perfect girlfriend. It was just the look in her eyes that unsettled Cal. He'd seen that look before, knew what it meant; he faced it in the mirror every morning. 'She's not very you,' he concluded, because it was the best way he knew how to put it.

It was something Ethan had obviously already considered as concern briefly flashed across his face before he said, somewhat awkwardly, 'Well. Maybe that's a good thing.' Gathering his patient's notes together, he seemed intent upon escaping from this conversation.

Trying to seem more optimistic, Cal said, 'So when is the big day? The date,' he clarified when Ethan gave him a look.

'Tonight.'

'Tonight?'

Am I not speaking clearly today or something?' Ethan questioned.

'No, it's just… it's Fran's birthday. I thought we'd do something altogether.' Cal tried not to enjoy it too much when Ethan's face revealed his oversight. 'Did you _forget_?'

'I… didn't know it had got to be that time again.'

'Once every twelve months, Ethan.' Cal rolled his eyes, overlooking the fact that he'd missed Ethan's birthday only a month ago. Besides, Ethan was in far less need of a family celebration than Fran right now and what was done was done. 'Have you even got her a card?'

'I'll… get one.' It seemed as though Ethan was about to bolt outside and follow through with that decision right this second. Forgetting his only sister's birthday seemed to have devastated him. 'What have you got her?'

Nothing, but Ethan didn't need to know that. 'I was going to pay for dinner.' The perfect sort of present: one he benefited from as well. 'I suppose it's a table for two now.'

'No, I'll… rearrange or something. I'll come.'

'Well not if you're already busy.'

'I'll postpone.' Ethan paused before adding, 'Have you asked if Fran's free?'

Cal snorted. 'When has she ever had birthday plans?' Even as a kid, she'd always waited to be asked what she wanted to do rather than force her ideas on anybody else. Her eighteenth birthday would have passed by uncelebrated if it weren't for Cal himself forcing her to partake of her first legal drink. Come to think of it, it could have been her first drink full stop: she was a stickler for the rules.

'It doesn't mean she wants you to make them for her.' The struggle was all too evident on Ethan's face, and Cal almost felt sorry for him. Preparing for a date with Tiffany Gray was enough for his brother to deal with in one day, without having to debate whether he should even be going in the first place. 'Maybe you should check with her.'

'And then get back to you before you cancel with the paramedic? That's nice, Ethan.'

Ethan shrugged and backed away. 'I'm just suggesting…' he insisted, before heading away to see his next patient.

Cal allowed himself a few seconds to silently seethe before doing the same.

* * *

'So,' Max said, leaning up against the ambulance as Tiffany restocked it. 'Rumour has it somebody has a hot date tonight.'

'Oh my God, did you finally save up enough for the escort?' Tiffany retorted, mock-Valley girl excitement laced with a Mean Girl edge.

'Ha ha. So, give me details, where are you and Doctor Hardy the Elder going?'

'Doctor Hardy?' Iain put his head around the door, raising his eyebrows as he looked at Tiffany. 'Ethan?'

'And what of it?' Tiffany replied, her words and gaze more sharp than Max would have expected. It seemed the girl could dish it out but not necessarily take it, which usually annoyed him.

Holding his hands up in surrender, Iain retreated inside the ambulance.

'Thanks for that.'

'Hey, I didn't know you had to run your paramours past your partner first,' Max reminded her. Not for the first time, he was struck by how close Iain and Tiffany seemed, more like old friends than new colleagues. It didn't make sense, but neither did it further his cause right now. 'So, give me the four-one-one.'

Rolling her eyes, Tiffany said, 'How do you even know?'

'Honey.' A word which was fast becoming a by-word for an authority on everything within the hospital. 'She said Ethan had a date, and given your mission yesterday, I put two and two together. Which leads me back to – where are you going?'

For the first time during the conversation, Tiffany smiled, which Max found odd. Here they were, hours away from her date with the doctor she'd seemed impatient to get into bed yesterday, and it was more like she was hours away from her last supper. If he didn't know her better by now, he might have thought she was nervous.

'The open-mic night.'

It was his turn to look uncertain. 'At the pub?'

'Yeah.'

'The local pub?'

'Yeah!' She rolled her eyes again. 'Well I wasn't going to miss your debut, was I?'

He wished she would. He wished most people would. Illogical as it was, given his aspirations to be a rockstar, actually getting up on the excuse for a stage in front of his work colleagues wasn't appealing as much as it should.

'I wouldn't mind,' was all he said. 'Don't you want to go somewhere more…?' He didn't know how that sentence ended. It was just that he didn't think Ethan Hardy would think much to an open mic night for a first date. Mind you, it was a first date with Tiffany. Max had a suspicion that Ethan wouldn't know what had hit him anyway.

And Tiffany seemed entirely unbothered by the less than romantic setting. 'It'll be fun.'

'Tiff, could you go get me a coffee?' Iain interrupted them.

'I'm talking.'

'And you're supposed to be working,' her colleague reminded her. Holding out a note he said, 'Get yourself one too.'

Her flounce was reminiscent of so many teenage girls Max had known, not least his three step-sisters. 'You do know the US declared independence in 1776, right? We don't have to do what you tell us anymore.'

'We can celebrate on July Fourth,' Iain retorted. 'Mine's a latte.' He waited until Tiffany had sauntered away, taking an unnecessarily long time to cross from the ambulance to the hospital doorway. Then he turned to Max. 'Are you going to be there tonight?'

'At the pub?' Max nodded.

Without taking his eyes off of Tiffany, Iain said, 'Keep an eye on her, yeah?' When Max gave him a questioning look, he said, 'Not like that. Just… make sure she's alright.'

'She's going on a date with Ethan. How is she not going to be alright?'

'It's not him I'm concerned about. It's her.'

There was a pause and it was only once it was over, once Iain had gone back to sorting out the bandages and equipment, that Max realised he should have asked him why.

* * *

'Doctor Hardy?' Noel put his around the door. 'There's a Mrs Edison in reception for you. Her daughter Emily's been brought in?'

Fran nodded her thanks and steeled herself for a difficult conversation. She'd already placed a provisional call to the psych ward following the results of Emily's weigh-in. With a BMI of 16.5, she was far below the healthy range and Robyn had reported back on the fine downy hair covering Emily's arms. All the signs pointed towards an eating disorder, and now it was Fran's job to convey their findings to Mrs Edison. She wasn't looking forward to it, so much so that she was actually grateful for Cal's interruption, at least at first.

'What are you doing tonight?'

'What?'

'Tonight.' Then, as if she was stupid, he added, 'Your birthday?'

'I was trying to forget about it.' And succeeding mainly. If it hadn't been for her family insisting upon celebrating the inconsequential milestone, she'd have avoided it most years without batting an eyelid. Right now, turning twenty-eight was pretty far down her list of priorities.

'I was thinking we could all go out for dinner.' In response to her glance, he said, 'What? Why does everybody look at me like that? We can definitely eat dinner together.'

'That would make it twice in three months.' Which was exactly two hundred per cent more times than in the last three years. 'Anyway, Ethan has a date.'

'How do you know about that?'

'Everybody knows about that.' Even she did, so that statement must be true; hospital gossip, even about her own brother, was not her forte.

'Do you know who it's with though?' Cal demanded and seemed to be settling in for a decent bitching session.

'Cal, I don't have the time for this,' Fran cut him off. It was true, plus she wasn't bothered who the date was with. Ethan was a grown man, thirty-two last month, and who he chose to date was his business and no-one else's. 'I've got patients to deal with. Let Ethan go on his date. I'm too tired for dinner anyway.' Also true. 'I'll talk to you later.' Maybe.

Mrs Edison was what she'd expected: a thoroughly professional, thoroughly efficient woman, with Emily's dark brown hair and a sense that her time was being wasted.

'Mrs Edison? I'm Doctor Hardy. I've been treating Emily.'

'Is she okay? The school said she fainted?'

'If you'd like to come with me, I can talk you through what's happened.'

Mrs Edison frowned. 'Can't I see Emily?'

'I'd like to talk to you before then, if I can. Just to get some background. Come with me.' Fran led the way to the relatives' room.

'Is Emily alright?' Mrs Edison demanded as soon as the door closed behind them. 'It was just a faint, wasn't it?'

Fran had rehearsed this over and over in her mind and she hoped it came out sounding vaguely natural now. 'Emily fainted and she was brought in straight away. In the short term, she's fine to go home.'

'In the short term?' The lawyer in Mrs Edison awoke. 'What does that mean?'

'We do have a few… concerns about Emily. Specifically, about her weight.'

'What about it?'

Surely she'd noticed? Fran studied Mrs Edison closely, wondering if she was bluffing. 'Emily does have a very low BMI. That's-'

'I know what it means.'

Fran nodded in lieu of becoming offended by the woman interrupting her. 'Emily has a BMI of sixteen-point-five. We normally consider eighteen to be the threshold measurement.'

'She's always been a slim girl.'

'This is rather more than slim, Mrs Edison.' Fran hesitated before saying, 'We believe Emily might be suffering from an eating disorder. We'd like her to have a psych assessment.'

'What?' Mrs Edison's eyebrows flew up. 'Don't be absurd. She's fainted once at school, she's a growing girl. It happens.'

'We think it might be rather more serious than that. I've already contacted the psych ward and, if you're agreeable to it, we can get the assessment done today before Emily goes home.'

'Absolutely not.' Mrs Edison shook her head. 'Emily does not need a psychiatric assessment. I hope you haven't mentioned this to her without me here.'

'We were waiting for your arrival.'

'Well, I'm here now, and if there's no further treatment, I'd like to take her home.' Mrs Edison got to her feet and shouldered her bag. 'I'd like to see my daughter now.'

'Mrs Edison, I really think Emily would benefit from seeing a specialist.' Fran fought against her own frustrations. 'It won't take long.'

'Look, Emily may have lost some weight recently. I'll talk to her.'

'I'd like her to see her GP,' Fran continued, unwilling to let this one go. 'Can we contact them and suggest she sees someone in the next few weeks?'

Mrs Edison rolled her eyes. 'It really isn't necessary. She's a young girl, they all go through these phases. She's training for a five-k.'

'Yes, I heard.' Fran tried to stay on topic. 'So if I send a letter to your GP, could you ensure you make an appointment for Emily as soon as possible?'

'If you're insistent. Now, can I see Emily?'

Knowing when you'd lost was one of the first rules of medicine as far as Fran could see, and she tried to give in gracefully now, leading Mrs Edison through to cubicles and leaving her with her daughter, still unable to believe that the woman couldn't see the state Emily was in. Slumping over the desk to complete the discharge papers, she let out an enormous sigh.

'Oh dear.' Charlie glanced up from his own sheaf of notes. 'Is everything alright?' He glanced at her papers. 'Is this the young girl Lofty was talking about?'

Fran nodded. 'It's a no-go on the psych assessment. I'm referring her back to her GP.'

'Exactly the right course of action. You can't save them all, even from themselves. Speaking of which, Aaron's mother has shown up and is waiting more than a little anxiously for her son's test results.'

Fran had forgotten. In treating Emily, she'd forgotten her earlier patient. This was exactly how she'd end up back in Connie Beauchamp's office by the end of the day, the perfect birthday present for the birthday she didn't even want to celebrate.

'I'll chase them up.'

'They've already arrived.' Charlie slid them underneath her gaze. 'And I wouldn't rush.'

The CT scan was clear. There wasn't even a minor cloud on the affected region. She blinked several times and then looked at Charlie. 'What am I looking at?'

'Well, I'm not the doctor, but I'm wondering whether somebody might have been exaggerating the truth a little.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'Lying?'

'Just maybe you should examine him again.' Charlie shrugged. 'Maybe see if he's still quite as tender in that area.'

Leaving Emily's discharge notes, Fran headed towards Aaron's cubicle. His mother was equally as dubiously dressed and looked more than a little put out at being kept waiting.

'Have you got these test results yet?' she demanded. 'We've been waiting for hours.'

Fran refrained from retorting. 'We've received the CT scan and the good news is that there is no damage to any internal organs.'

'But he's in agony!' Aaron's mum exclaimed. 'Have you checked them?'

'I'd like to examine Aaron again, if that's alright with you,' Fran continued, looking at Aaron. 'Has the pain got any worse?'

'Not worse, no…'

'Do you mind if I have another look?' At his nod, Fran began pressing on his side again. Aaron let out a half-hearted grumble at her touch. 'Has the pain moved at all, Aaron?'

'Sort of…'

'What is it? What's happened to him?'

Fran folded her arms. 'It's very unusual for pain sustained in an injury such as this to move around. It may be that Aaron is suffering from another ailment, coincidentally. Perhaps appendicitis. We'd have to run further tests of course, which may take some time…' She tailed off and looked at Aaron. 'If that's necessary.'

She counted the seconds until the teenager cracked. She didn't make it to three.

'There wasn't any pain. I… made it up.'

'What?' his mother demanded. 'What do you mean you made it up?'

'I… didn't want you to be mad at me for bunking school and I thought…' Aaron shrugged, all of his earlier swagger washed away under his mother's anger. 'I didn't think you'd all take it so seriously.'

'You do realise whilst we were treating your fake illness, we could have been treating people with real problems?' Fran asked, a standard line for these kind of cases. 'We have people out there with real illnesses desperate for our help.'

'I'm sorry! I didn't know it was such a big deal.'

'Aaron!' his mum growled. 'I cannot believe you'd do something like this. Just wait until your father hears.'

'I'll get the paperwork ready to discharge you.' Fran decided now was a good time to excuse herself. 'I'll get one of the nurses to see you out.'

Back at the nurses' station, Fran tried not to let the day grind her down. Forcing herself to sound chipper, she declared, 'Another time waster,' dropped into the chair and pulled another discharge form out. 'I should have picked that up earlier.'

'You treated him as a genuine patient. You followed through on his concerns. You did the right thing.' Charlie spoke slowly and kindly. 'There's always kids like Aaron looking for some fun.'

'And I'm sure Mrs Beauchamp will see it like that.' Regretting sounding quite so glib, Fran signed her name with a flourish on the forms and stood up again. It was best not to stay still too long where Charlie was concerned; there was always the chance he'd be nice to her, and she really couldn't take that right now. 'Can you show Aaron and his mum out?'

'Sure. And Francesca? Don't beat yourself up about things you can't control.'

Fran allowed herself a small snort to herself as he walked away. With that simple sentence, Charlie Fairhead had just proved he didn't know her in the slightest.

* * *

'So, how are the fingers?'

Max raised his eyebrows at Lofty. 'Are you trying to chat me up? Because if so, don't use lines like that.'

'I meant for the gig.' Lofty waved his own fingers vaguely at him.

'Can everybody stop calling it a gig? It's one song, tops. And don't do that.' Max mimicked Lofty's gesture and was gratified to see his friend look shamefaced as he walked away to continue with his work.

He didn't know why he got so irritable each time anybody mentioned the open mic night. Today was the day he got Max Walker back, and playing the guitar was part of that. Playing as part of a band called The Lodgers was not necessarily part of it, but it was a step in the right direction. He should be looking forward to it.

'Max, could you take Mr Kennedy to the toilet please?' Tess asked, poking her head out of a cubicle.

Max nodded. Set against that, tonight looked much more appealing. By the time he'd returned Mr Kennedy to his cubicle, he found he was itching to get his guitar. There was nothing like a tedious day to make things look brighter.

Somebody who didn't look bright was the girl in cubicle four. Lofty had made a passing reference to her earlier, and Max actually thought his mate had underplayed it. She wasn't just thin; she was cadaverous. The only person Max had ever seen looked quite so skeletal was his little sister Ashley, and she'd had her reasons which he doubted this girl shared. To make things worse, her mother now seemed to be berating her for having landed herself in hospital, albeit without really raising her voice. Max had a suspicion that if she'd thought anybody was listening, she wouldn't be doing it at all, but he was just the porter; he didn't count.

'You need to stop this silliness, Emily,' Mrs Edison said. 'We can't have you in here at the drop of every hat.'

'No Mum.' The girl dropped her head and focused upon her bitten fingernails. Max recognised that: he always knew when he was beaten by his mum too.

'Emily? Mrs Edison?' Max wondered how it was always Francesca these days. 'Sorry for the wait but I've had other patients to see.'

'So can I take her home now?' Mrs Edison didn't mess around. It was almost heartening to see somebody out-bitch Francesca.

There was a momentary hesitation on Francesca's part which Max didn't miss because it was so unlike her. 'Unless you've changed your mind about the assessment. Have you… told Emily?'

'Emily agrees with me. She'd just like to get home.'

Francesca gave a slow nod. 'Okay. I'm going to forward a letter to your GP. I really think it would be wise if you made an appointment with them to discuss any concerns you might have. I'll… get the relevant paperwork.'

Max couldn't believe what he was seeing. Here this girl was, lying in a bed, clearly significantly unwell, and Francesca was just going to let her go home. He couldn't claim to know the ins and outs of a doctor's responsibilities, but it seemed a duty of care was being missed somewhere.

Then she turned around and he realised he'd misjudged her – again. How often had he heard both Robyn and Lofty complaining about red tape tying their hands together, making their ability to give patients what they really needed so difficult? Medicine wasn't a simple case of diagnosing an illness and treating it. There were humans involved, and God knew, humans were flawed and hopeless at times. Emily needed help, that much was obvious. Unfortunately, it wasn't Francesca's right to give her that help. And it was killing her.

Time to give Max Walker a test-drive.

'Hi.' Stepping forward and blocking Francesca's exit, he tried to ignore the fury in her eyes and concentrate instead upon his mission. Admittedly, he wasn't sure what that involved just yet, but he was hoping his ability to think on his feet hadn't completely faded away.

'Can I ask what car you drive?'

'Excuse me?' Mrs Edison swept her eyes up and down him, and Max wasn't sure he hadn't preferred being invisible rather than being looked at like this.

'Car.' He hoped he could move beyond monosyllabic words otherwise this was going to be difficult. 'Only we've had a report of a car blocking a doctor in and we need it moved.'

'I didn't block anybody in.' Porter efficiently brushed off, she turned back to Francesca. 'Could we get going please?'

'Sorry, I really do need to know,' Max pressed on, hoping she wouldn't see the obvious flaw in the plan: surely he'd know what kind of car was blocking somebody else in?

Irritation seemed to be on his side. 'It's a Lexus.'

'Ah, that's the one!' He beamed, wondering if his smile would make her more cooperative. It didn't. 'So, if I could just ask you to move it?'

'We'll be out of here in a few minutes, can't it wait?'

'Afraid not. The doctor needs to make… a house-call.' This was awful, completely amateur. He could feel Francesca's wrath behind him and hoped this wouldn't get reported back to anybody more senior. Throwing him under a bus might help save her career here. He knew people that would do far worse.

'I really don't see how this is necessary.'

'Sorry…' He shrugged and waited.

A massive sigh. 'I'll be straight back,' Mrs Edison informed them, it sounding like both a promise and a threat. 'Get yourself ready, Emily.'

'I really am very sorry,' Max said again, wondering if it was too much and suspecting it was as she shot him a disgruntled look. 'I'll come and help you.'

'That's definitely not necessary,' Mrs Edison replied, yet he followed her out all the same, only risking one glance over his shoulder at Francesca to vaguely gesture in Emily's direction. It took longer than he might have expected for her eyes to widen in realisation at what he'd done. He only hoped it was enough.

* * *

This was unethical, Fran was almost certain of that. Mrs Edison had expressed her opinion on the subject and Emily had done little to discredit it. Continuing to discuss the matter without a parent or guardian present was exactly the kind of thing that would attract Mrs Beauchamp's notice and she should walk away now.

'Emily-'

'Is he your boyfriend?'

Fran blinked, taken aback by the girl's words. So taken aback that she actually responded. 'I'm sorry?'

'The guy.' Emily gestured towards where her mum had walked out of the department. Followed by Max. 'The guy who lied to my mum.'

So she was smart. That figured. Not smart enough to read signals properly, but not stupid enough to be taken in by Max's dumb ruse. That deserved some reward, and Fran gave it. 'No.' Then, curious despite herself, she followed up with, 'What made you think that?'

Emily shrugged. 'I don't know. He helped you out by getting me on my own.'

That was true. Perhaps Emily had picked up on that before even Fran had, whilst Fran had still been staring at Max uncomprehendingly and wondering why the porter seemed determined to force himself into her life. He'd done a nice thing. She should be more grateful.

Talking about Max wasn't her raison d'etre though and Fran tried to get the conversation back on track. 'Emily, has your mum mentioned what we've talked about?'

Another shrug, reminding Fran that, however smart she was, she was just a girl, a teenager. This conversation shouldn't be happening.

'I'm fine.'

Oh how Fran recognised that refrain. It was always a lie. 'We do have some concerns about your weight, Emily.'

'So I'll eat. I've just been training hard.' Her eyes beseeched Fran to give this up. 'I'm fine!'

'Mrs Green said you were training for a five-k.' Fran didn't know where this had come from. 'Do you like running?'

'It's alright.' Then, less hostile, 'Do you?'

'Normally.' Involuntarily, Fran glanced down at her abdomen.

'When's it due?'

'June.' Fran checked herself. This was not how she'd wanted this conversation to go. How had Emily had twisted it so neatly, leading her away from the main issue to one she tried her best not to think about most of the time? Trying desperately to regain some control, she said, 'Emily, if there was anything wrong, you do know we're here to help, don't you?'

'There's nothing wrong.' From somewhere, the girl conjured up that smile again, the one which didn't reach her eyes. 'I'm fine.'

Fran didn't know what more she could do. If neither Emily nor her mother would agree to a psych assessment, there was only one thing she could do, and she really didn't want to have to go there. Sectioning was reserved for people believed to be an immediate danger to themselves or others. Emily's danger wasn't immediate. Nobody could say Fran hadn't done her job.

That didn't stop her heart sinking uncharacteristically as Mrs Edison and Emily left the department, the former cursing porters who couldn't tell the difference between a Lexus and a Lotus, the latter listening in silence. How Fran recognised that.

And to make matters worse, here came Connie Beauchamp.

'Francesca. Maybe you'd like to explain how it has taken four hours to treat and discharge a boy with superficial cuts and a girl who fainted.'

Put like that, she could understand the clinical lead's barely-controlled irritation. She fell back on a tried and tested method of dealing with Mrs Beauchamp: staying silent.

'Wasting hospital resources on minor ailments is something we simply cannot afford to do,' Connie began before help came from an unlikely source.

'Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt, but-'

'Charlie, I'm sure whatever you have to say is important, but right now I am dealing with Francesca,' Connie cut him off.

But the nurse wasn't going to listen. Fran watched, trying not to gape at this masterclass in fighting off Connie Beauchamp.

'What I have to say _is_ important and relevant. Francesca has worked tirelessly today with two far more complex cases than the notes suggest, something you would know if you deigned to set foot outside your office for something other than to unfairly criticise your staff. Francesca has acted in the best interests of her patients at all times, which, I believe, is why we're here. Now, unless you've got something else to add, perhaps you could let her finish her shift.'

Connie's mouth opened and closed a few times. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away. Fran could scarcely believe it.

Now she looked at Charlie, wondering if she was supposed to thank him for stepping in. She wasn't very good at that. What he'd said had been true, she supposed, if she was feeling confident about herself, something else she'd struggled with recently.

'You need to learn to stand up for yourself,' he said, nodding in the wake of Connie's departure. 'I promise you, her bark is far worse than her bite.'

Fran managed a small, thin smile despite herself. 'I'd rather not test the theory.'

'Don't let her push you around so much. You've got more important things to be thinking about than pleasing Mrs Beauchamp.' Before Fran could ask him what he was talking about, he gestured towards her stomach.

Of course. What else?

* * *

'When you said a gig,' Ethan said, stepping inside the pub, 'I wasn't expecting… this.'

Tiffany didn't break her stride as she glanced back at him. 'Is there a problem with that?' A raised eyebrow suggested that, if there was a problem, he needed to take it up with somebody who cared and leave her to the evening she had planned. His presence wasn't of prime importance. Strangely, that made him want to stay.

'No, no problem.' Shaking his head, he tried to believe his lie. This was… fine, it was… good. He liked this pub, knew his way around it, and there was nothing Ethan liked more than familiarity. The thing was, he also liked not making a fool himself, and he wasn't sure a first date with Tiffany in a pub packed full of his colleagues on open mic night was the best way of avoiding that. The anxiety he'd felt all day wasn't dissipating now.

At least there was something to do, though. There was the formality of buying a drink, finding a seat, settling in. Ethan could follow routines, even if it had been a long time since he had been on a date. Okay, so following his date to the bar was a change, but, thinking positively, none of his relationships in the past had worked out in the long-term, so maybe a change was necessary. That Tiffany was now leaning on the bar, looking to catch the eye of the barman, wasn't a reason to back out of this evening.

Sliding alongside her, he said, 'So, what can I get for you?'

'Wine.' No hesitation. Ethan supposed he liked that. It certainly beat his own usual dithering over what exactly he wanted to drink.

Still, there were clarifications to seek. 'Red, white or rose?'

'Does it matter?' Then, as if she realised she'd spoken too sharply, she added, 'Red, I guess.'

So there was a decision made. A bottle of red and two glasses was an easy order and within minutes they were hunting for a table, something Tiffany was good at; Ethan didn't know if the couple who vacated the table for them had been intending to leave or whether his date had given them an extremely convincing look. Whatever it was, they were installed now, table between them, bottle open, and absolutely nothing in Ethan's mind to talk about.

He should have foreseen this. He'd had to stifle questions last night as she'd asked him out, smother out the doubts and uncertainties. But what he'd said last night had been true: girls like her didn't usually like him. Cal had summed it up again today: _she's not very you_. Tiffany seemed the only one who didn't see it. That was pretty cool.

But it wasn't helping him in this moment. From the little he knew of Tiffany, he doubted they had a whole lot in common to talk about. She smoked, drank hard, enjoyed being around other people. He knew that made him sound boring and anti-social, and perhaps in comparison to her he was. Which didn't explain why she'd wanted this to happen.

He opened his mouth to say something.

'So what's the weirdest thing anyone's ever swallowed on your watch?'

He blinked. 'Excuse me?'

'Oh come on.' Tiffany leaned in, wine glass in hand. 'We've all seen the TV shows. People shoving vacuums up their asses and sticking peas up their noses. So what's the weirdest thing you've seen?' How she managed to make that sound seductive, he had no idea. It was a skill, that was for sure.

'Erm.' He wracked his brains. 'I had a guy who'd swallowed a cow once.'

It was Tiffany's turn to look startled. 'A whole cow? Wouldn't he, like, explode or something?'

Ethan grinned. 'Sorry. I should have said, it was a cow from his son's farm set. It was about this big.' He held his fingers out to demonstrate how very far from a whole cow it had been. Against her false conclusion, it sounded lame and he was ashamed of it.

'What was he doing putting that in his mouth?'

'That was my question!'

'And the answer was?'

'He was trying to prove to his girlfriend that it was too big to swallow.' He could still remember the way the woman had looked at him, embarrassed to have to admit that she'd come here with him. The x-ray had been a particular favourite of the department he'd been working in at the time. It had even been pinned up in the staffroom, something he was still sure was breaking some kind of ethical code. Now he wished he'd taken a snap of it on his phone; he thought Tiffany would enjoy it.

'But you must see some sights out on the ambulance,' he countered now. There had been times when he'd viewed the paramedics as some kind of cavalry, out on the real battlefield of medicine. The few times he'd been part of a trauma unit he'd seen what they had to deal with every day and he suspected it was more interesting than a plastic cow.

Yet Tiffany didn't seem to think so. 'Oh, it's alright.' She shrugged. 'Most of the time it's waiting around. There was this one guy a week ago. So fat we didn't know how we'd get him in the ambulance, Iain had to call for back-up.'

Obesity wasn't a laughing matter. It was, in Ethan's opinion, one of the largest problems facing the NHS at this present moment in time, pun unintended. So why was he laughing now as Tiffany proceeded to describe the struggle they'd had to get the man into the ambulance, complete with awful impressions of both Iain and Dixie?

'We shouldn't laugh,' he said eventually.

'Better than crying.'

He supposed that was true and was about to say something to that effect when there was a screech of feedback that made everybody in the pub wince. As signals went, it was pretty clear: the open mic night was beginning.

'Do you want to go nearer the front?'

'What? No.' Tiffany shook her head.

'I thought we were here for the gig.'

She peered over the top of the heads at the stage. 'I wanted to support Max and Lofty.'

'They're playing at this?' Ethan did his best not to splutter.

'You didn't know?' She seemed surprised. 'They're apparently some hotshot duo. Or something. Is it a problem?'

'What? No.' It shouldn't be. He was able to work alongside Max every day without too much bother, so seeing him playing a guitar at a distance shouldn't be an issue. He didn't actually have to speak to him. 'I didn't know you knew them.' Why would he? He barely knew anything about her.

'Max is cool. Shall I get more wine?'

A clear end to the conversation which took him by surprise. He hadn't noticed the bottle of wine going down, hadn't know he needed to: they'd hardly been sat down very long. Yet empty it was.

'Let me.' He stood up, taking the empty bottle with him. 'Same again?'

'Sure. Why not?'

Why not indeed?

* * *

There was little in life that could compare to the adrenalin rush caused by playing to an audience. Twenty-four hours ago, Max could have thought of ten better ways to spend this evening. From the moment he played the final chord, all he wanted to do was to start it again. One song had not been enough. As ways of getting Max Walker back went, this was a winner.

'I want to go again!' Lofty exclaimed, bouncing on his toes as they came off of the stage. 'Can we go again?'

'Do we have another song?'

His flat-mate let out a huff. 'Okay, so we'll… practise a new song.'

Max grinned, pleased his bandmate was as pumped as he was by the experience. Sharing the moment with his best mate was the icing on the cake as far as he was concerned.

'I'm going to get drinks,' he said. 'Catch you in a few.'

Pushing his way through the crowd to get to the bar, Max took a sweep of the pub. There was Tiffany, leaning forward over the table, dark hair tumbling down her back. And there was Ethan, looking into her face, as if she was something he'd never seen before. Whatever they were talking about looked intense, a conversation not usually suited to a first date, but it looked like they were enjoying it. The scene in front of him only made Iain's warning words seem even stranger. Tiffany was full-on and relentless, but she wasn't dangerous.

'Hey, well done!' His thoughts were interrupted by Robyn appearing beside him, flinging her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek. 'You were amazing.'

Max regarded his step-sister carefully. She was both drunk and over-excited, an interesting combination. Displays of affection like this weren't usual, and he narrowed his eyes. 'Are you congratulating me or Lofty?'

'Shut up.' A slap on the arm put them back into usual territory much to his relief.

He grinned, pleased his guess had been proved correct. Robyn had been eyeing their flatmate up for months and he had a suspicion that Lofty's black jeans tonight ('They're my rockstar jeans') might have pushed her over the edge. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, his best mate and his step-sister, so he decided not to think about it tonight. He was supposed to be celebrating.

'So it's true then.' Max followed Robyn's nod towards where Tiffany and Ethan were still deep in conversation. 'Bit odd.'

'Is it?' He knew it was, but odd wasn't always bad. Zoe and him had been odd. _And that worked out_ so _well._

'Yeah.' Then, looking at her step-brother, she said, 'At least it's not you this time.'

'Me?'

She shrugged. 'You and Tiffany. You seemed to be getting… close.'

'Really?' It was news to him. Yes, they took cigarette breaks together. Yes, she'd confided about her crush on Ethan to him. But _close_? 'She's terrifying.'

'Good. Keep it that way.' Then, as if this had been the point of this conversation all along, 'You were nice to Francesca today.'

Also news to him. 'I helped a patient out.'

'Her patient.'

'Lofty's too.' The excuses sounded pathetic and he knew it. He'd acted as he had because it felt like the right thing to do. Francesca had begun her day by being bawled out by Connie, something which was at least partly his fault; telling a tiny lie to a patient's mother to buy her five minutes was barely even a thing.

'Max, when are you going to get it? Nothing you do is going to make her like you.'

'Thanks.'

'I'm not saying it to be mean, I'm saying it because I care. About you. You've been all over the place recently. What was yesterday about?'

It was the first time she'd broached the topic with him, and Max couldn't help hanging his head in shame a little. She'd helped him to get this job, had vouched for his ability to do it. No matter how much he'd defended himself to Francesca and to Tess, it had been a dumb move. But, 'According to you, I'm always doing dumb stuff.'

'Not that dumb. Seriously, Max. Stop getting involved.'

He bit back a retort. He'd like nothing more than to stop getting involved in Francesca Hardy's life. This wasn't how things were meant to be. One drink, a hundred days or more ago. A fun evening, what he could now remember had been a good kiss. That was it. He wasn't supposed to still be even thinking about all of this. Yet how could he help it? She was having his baby and then giving it away. He was about as involved as he could possibly be.

'Well, thanks for the pep talk,' he said eventually, taking the two bottles of beer he'd ordered.

'Oh don't be like that!'

'No, it's fine. I'm taking my _involvement_ elsewhere. Keep the change, mate,' he instructed the barman before leaving the bar. He momentarily thought about delivering one of the beers to Lofty, then decided this was a two beer problem and headed outside for a much-needed cigarette.

The first drag was always the best, and he exhaled slowly, hoping to calm himself down. He wasn't angry, as such, just a little annoyed that Robyn had ruined his mood quite so spectacularly. It was the first time he'd felt like himself for ages, possibly since Zoe had left. He knew it wouldn't have lasted forever, but he hadn't expected it to be so fleeting. Now here he was, back where'd he been before: cigarettes and alcohol.

'Hey.'

Looking up from the floor, what he saw first was legs. Endless legs. It took him a while to get to her blonde hair and pouting lips. There was nothing unique about her, her face would blend in with many other faces he'd known throughout the years. That was a good thing.

'I loved what you did with that song,' she said now, sidling up to him, completely aware what she was doing. 'Oasis, right?'

'The Undertones.' He looked at her again. She looked young. Legal, definitely legal, but probably hadn't started paying her student loan off yet. That was alright. Max and mature women didn't really go together; he'd learnt that in the last year, if nothing else.

His correction didn't faze her. 'Well I liked it.'

The hesitation was mere seconds, as Max considered what he'd left behind in the pub: Lofty, Robyn, his colleagues, Tiffany.

'Do you want to get out of here?'

Her nod was all it took for him to abandon his beer and stub out his cigarette.

* * *

Three bottles of wine. How had that happened? Ethan supposed it must have done, judging by the debris on the table as they left the pub and that the walk to Tiffany's maisonette felt neither long nor cold despite it being February. Even so, it seemed excessive. They hadn't even been there three hours.

The conversation was the thing, he supposed. Like the wine, it had flowed, almost seamlessly from topic to topic, touching upon so many aspects of his life that he couldn't piece it all together now. They'd talked about school and ambitions and holidays and first kisses and last kisses and what they wished they'd have done differently fifteen years ago. It was the sort of conversation he'd never had before, with anybody, and he didn't want it to end. Normally he found the end of a date to be a relief, letting him take a much-needed breath and regroup. This was new.

Still, there was Tiffany's door and here they were and all good things came to an end.

'I've got a key here somewhere,' she said, rifling through her handbag, squinting in the streetlight. 'I know I brought it.' Giggling, she had another look through it, before giving up, stooping down to the pot next to the door and swiping a spare key from underneath it.

'That's really not safe, you know,' he ventured, unable to believe that somebody as seemingly streetwise as Tiffany would be so naïve when it came to security. 'Anybody could just walk in and take whatever they wanted.'

'There's nothing worth taking.' Key in the lock, Tiffany turned to look at him and, for the first time, seemed shy. 'Do you… do you want to come in?'

'Oh. I…'

'You don't have to,' she said immediately, brushing him off, acting as if she'd never wanted him there in the first place. 'I was only asking.'

'It's just I've got a shift tomorrow and-'

'No, sure.' She stepped inside the door. 'I'll be seeing you then. Goodnight.'

And the door was closed before Ethan could say a word.

For several minutes he stood there, unsure how they'd gone from finishing each other's sentences to standing either side of a closed door. It had all happened so suddenly that his brain had yet to catch up, smothered underneath too much red wine and having actually enjoyed himself for the first time in months. Amidst all of the stresses of an average day at work, and managing not to throttle Cal or worry too much about Fran, he'd found a few short hours for himself and now he'd ruined it. Getting the door slammed shut in his face was what he deserved; he'd been an idiot.

The wine came in handy though. Sober, he'd have walked away, gone home and lain awake wondering how differently things could have turned out. He'd have gone into work and the date would fade into obscurity, never mentioned again, Tiffany just another colleague. Life would continue as it always had.

But now, he was raising his hand to the door, not knowing what he'd say when or if it opened, unclear why he was even doing this.

His knuckles never made contact with the door. Without warning, the door opened and Tiffany appeared, still in her inadequate jacket and impractical heels.

'So do you want to come in then?'

He said the only thing he could, 'Yes,' before she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him inside.

* * *

 ** _Next time: Too Late_**

 _'Your last scan was very clear and baby seems to be growing at the correct rate. If you could just pop up onto the bed, I'll take some measurements and check that.'_

 _Fran objected to the word 'pop' silently as she swung her legs up onto the bed, the disposable sheet shifting and rustling underneath her. 'Popping' was something which was becoming increasingly difficult as her waistline expanded. She supposed the midwife would hardly use words like 'lumber' or 'heave' to describe how she got onto the bed, but 'pop' was just ridiculous._

 _'All looking good,' the midwife said eventually. 'You need to make an appointment to come back in three weeks' time. You'll have the option for some more screening tests then. Are you aware of any hereditary diseases in your family or that of the father's?'_

 _Fran shook her head immediately. The Hardys were a healthy breed._

 _'Or the father's?' the midwife repeated gently. 'I know last time we spoke, he wasn't in the picture. Has that changed?'_

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'Teenage Kicks' by The Undertones - i.e. the song Lofty and Max play in this chapter!


	13. Too Late

**I won't be updating for a couple of days now as I'm work busy again. Hope people are still enjoying, and, if not, hit review and let me know why ;)**

* * *

 _I just pray that you don't let me down right now, but it's too late 'cause I'm already yours._

Some things never changed, Max thought as he strolled into work. The British spring time was always a let-down, mornings never got any easier and seven months had done nothing to change the person he inherently was. Here he was, hungover and smelling of last night's perfume, and there was Robyn, about to say something any second-

'Oh so you are still alive then?'

He managed a sheepish smile. 'Miss me?'

'Miss the rent money.' She raised her eyebrows pointedly.

'Oh. Right. Is it due already?'

'It was due last week.'

Of course. Max hadn't known it had come to be that time again, nor that it had been quite so long since he'd seen either of his flatmates. He'd been home in that time but their shift patterns hadn't coincided and then he'd found better places to be.

'I'll… get it to you by the end of the day.'

'It's not about the money, Max.' Robyn gave a sigh. 'What's going on with you?'

Max tried to walk on.

'Don't walk away from me. I'm asking you a question.'

He shrugged. 'Nothing's going on.'

'You've not been home in days.'

'I'm a big boy. I can look after myself.'

'By sleeping your way around the hospital?' Robyn looked triumphant as she hit the nail on the head. 'Did you really think you were going to keep that one quiet?'

'Honey?'

'Honey.'

He might have known. His fling (if you could call a few shared nights together that) with a nurse from neurology was always going to come back and bite him on the bum if the barista got hold of it. Still, it was no secret, and he was pretty sure that Niamh would have no complaints if it became a five-day wonder; she was also a big girl who could look after herself. Unlike Kirsty on oncology who'd been last week's companion and wouldn't even look him in the eye when they passed in corridors now. Her, he felt a little guilty about.

'Seriously, Max, what is with you? This isn't like you.' Then, when he gave her doubtful look, she said, 'Well, it hasn't been, not recently. What's wrong?'

He didn't know where he could start with that one. If Robyn didn't already know, didn't get it, he couldn't explain it. So he turned it back onto her. 'You told me to stop getting involved. So.' He gestured down at himself. 'What?'

Robyn shook her head at him. 'You know this is ridiculous, right?'

'Well maybe I like ridiculous.' He could hear himself, realised he sounded like a sulky fourteen-year-old and loathed himself for it. Needing to get out of the situation, he checked his watch, saw he still had five minutes, and pulled out his cigarettes. 'I'll be in soon.'

Robyn rolled her eyes. 'You know smoking doesn't help.'

'And you'd know that how?' He retorted, almost getting a kick out of the hurt look that passed across her face, before feeling bad and knowing he had to get away before he said something else he'd regret.

Contrary to whatever Robyn said, smoking did help. It gave him something to do other than stare blindly at walls, and it was eminently more approved of whilst on duty than alcohol was. When he was smoking, he at least felt more like himself, and disliked himself less than the other ways he'd been trying to escape from life recently. One smoke before work would make the rest of the day, being watched by Robyn as he tried not to watch Francesca, just about bearable. Smoking helped a lot.

And here was someone else who clearly felt the same way.

'God, bad night?' Tiffany asked, looking him up and down, wrinkling her nose up. 'Nurse Niamh's bedside manner could do with some improvements.'

'The paramedics know?'

'Oh yeah.' She nodded, before grinning wickedly. 'What's your problem? She's hot.'

Max wished it was that simple. Niamh was hot, a fiery red-head with alabaster skin and a vivacious personality. She was lusted after by at least half of neurology and numerous other staff members across the hospital, and, without kissing-and-telling, she didn't disappoint. By Tiffany's standards, he was onto a damn good thing. Explaining why he wasn't swinging from the rafters was too complicated, so he didn't try.

'How are things with you and Ethan?'

A shrug. 'You know.'

He didn't, not even slightly. He was still finding it impossible to work out what they saw in each other, what they talked about when they weren't within spitting distance of the ED.

'Are you going to this ball thing?'

'What ball?'

She shrugged as if it didn't much matter. 'I don't know. A fundraising thing.'

'The charity ball?' Max gave a snort of laughter. 'Why would I be invited? It's for surgeons and anybody else with money to throw around.' It was on the tip of his tongue to say he wouldn't want to go anyway.

'Ethan's asked me to go with him.'

Max blinked. 'Oh. That'll be… nice.' As Tiffany shot him a look, he added, 'I have no idea, I've never been near one of them. Pass.'

She took a long drag on her cigarette. 'It's at a museum.'

He nodded. 'Yeah, I heard that.' Frowning, he added, 'Is that important?'

'I hate museums. All of that old stuff.' She visibly shuddered. Max had never seen such a visceral reaction to something so minor before. 'Should I go?'

He raised his eyebrows. She was actually asking for his input. He had no idea why she kept doing this; as she'd so correctly pointed out before, his track record was not a good advert for his relationship advice, and that was without her knowing about the whole Fran Thing. Okay, so his suggestion that she tried talking to Ethan seemed to have worked, but he didn't think that qualified him as a guru. That she was even in this position had blown his mind so that it was virtually useless.

'Do you want to go?'

'Yeah. No. I… don't know.' She shrugged and took a drag on her cigarette as if that was an answer in itself. 'Forget it.' Grinding the butt out, she gave him what amounted to a grimace rather than a smile. 'Catch you later.'

Max finished his cigarette alone. Naturally.

* * *

As days went, today was going well. Cal had been almost early for work and had already treated and discharged three patients. Tonight, he had the opportunity to network with some of the most influential people in the hospital, laying the groundwork for any favours he might want to call in in the future. Unlike his brother, he might not have a date for the evening, but that meant he'd have more time to butter up management. Besides, somehow he doubted that Tiffany Gray would add value to Ethan's evening.

Putting that aside for the moment, he bowled into the reception area, buoyed up with general enthusiasm for life.

'Mr Edgar?' he said, glancing at the notes he scooped up off of the desk.

A man, perhaps not much older than Cal himself, stood up. He had a makeshift bandage clasped to his hand which looked like it was just about holding back the flow of blood. Cal glanced at the notes again. An accident with a kitchen knife. Not exactly _Grey's Anatomy_ worthy, but it would be one more patient he could tick off today. For once, he might even beat Fran's efficiency.

'If you'd like to come this way.' Cal gestured through the cubicles. 'What happened?'

'It was a stupid mistake. I was chopping some vegetables and the knife slipped. I just need it treating and then I'll be on my way.'

'If you'd like to take a seat, Mr Edgar.'

'Rob's fine.' He gave an uneasy smile. 'Sorry. Never liked hospitals.'

'Triage have recommended some stitches,' Cal explained, as he began to peel back the bandage. When he saw the wound, he let out a low whistle. 'That's a pretty impressive slice. Good chopping technique.'

'I don't think I'm supposed to chop myself,' Rob said with a sheepish grin.

Cal studied the cut more intently. It was long and deep; he was surprised that Rob wasn't making more of a fuss. 'Nice bandage,' he remarked, more for something to say.

'My wife,' Rob explained. 'She fancies herself as a nurse, watches all the shows.'

'But didn't fancy the real thing?'

'She's stayed at home with the kids. How's it looking?'

Cal wasn't sure, and he didn't like not being sure. 'It could do with cleaning,' he said, falling back on the classic line to buy some time. 'Then we'll be able to get a proper look at it. It will definitely need stitching.'

Rob raised his eyebrows. 'Why do I sense a "but" is on its way?'

Caught out, Cal gave a grimace. 'It is very deep. I'd quite like to send you for a scan, just to check you haven't done any damage to the tendons in your hand.'

'Is that going to take long?'

'It shouldn't. Have you got somewhere to be?'

Rob hesitated, indecision passing across his face before he spoke. 'Oh, no, just… I'm supposed to be meeting somebody.'

'You might want to let them know you could be late.'

Unexpectedly, Rob gave a snort of laughter. 'Yeah, well, there'll be no surprise there. It's my son. I haven't actually met him before, you see. Today's the first time.'

'Right.' Cal nodded, pretending he understood. 'Okay. We'll do what we can.'

'Thanks.'

Leaving the cubicle, Cal directed Lofty to spend some time cleaning the wound whilst they waited for the scan to become free. He wondered how much time he wasted on this phone, waiting for hospital equipment to be free and ready for use. On hold, he took the opportunity to speak to his sister, who looked even less amused than usual.

'What's wrong?'

She glanced up from the patient's file she was reading. 'Nothing. Just wondering how some people can be so idiotic.'

Cal suspected he probably some insight into that particular human foible, but he wasn't going to volunteer the information. Instead, he opted for a quizzical frown.

'Why do people not take their medication and then expect us to patch up the problem? It's idiocy of the highest order.'

'Ouch. Somebody's in a bad mood.'

'I'm not in a bad mood! I just… I've got a lot on today.'

'The midwife's appointment?'

She rolled her eyes, obviously regretting ever telling him when her next appointment was. 'Amongst other stuff.' Then, changing the subject entirely, as was her wont whenever anything baby-related arose, 'Who are you calling?'

'Need to scan my guy in cubicle seven. I want to check he hasn't severed any tendons.' Cal held a finger up as the phone was finally answered with a clatter. 'Hi. It's Cal Knight from the ED.'

By the time he'd finished the call, Fran had moved on elsewhere. It was startling how quickly she could still move given she had what amounted a deadweight strapped to her stomach. What was less surprising, given who she was and everything she'd said, was how little attention she paid to the way her body was changing. She still came to work every day, still looked immaculate, if a little tired, still gave her all to each and every patient. At certain angles, she still didn't even appear pregnant, any and all weight gain confined to her abdomen. It was impressive in some ways, and deeply worrying in others. And Cal knew he should be doing more, should be sitting his little sister down and talking to her. But there were patients to see and events to attend and she wouldn't appreciate his meddling in her life anyway. All in all, it was easier if he kept his nose firmly out of it.

* * *

The silence as the midwife noted down Fran's latest vital statistics spoke volumes. It was the silence Fran herself used as she mulled over a patient's symptoms and sought out the least harsh way to deliver dubious news.

'Your blood pressure is a little on the high side,' the midwife said, striking a tone somewhere between concerned friend and reprimanding schoolteacher. Fran hoped her own manner was less patronising. 'Ideally we'd like it to be lower. Have you been taking things easy?'

'Work's very busy.'

'Yes, I imagine it is. But you do have your own health to consider, and that of the baby.' The midwife paused, pursed her lips, and then added, 'Have you been to any of the antenatal classes I recommended to you?'

'No.' Even setting aside her usual policy of honesty, there was no point in lying on this occasion. The question had been asked with the air of somebody who already knew the answer and was merely testing the patient. Fran had always despised questions like that.

'I think you might find them very useful. Lots of women like them just to talk to people in the same position as they're in.' The midwife sighed as Fran raised an eyebrow in her direction. 'There _are_ other people in your position, Doctor Hardy. You're not the first single mother. And, whilst some of the post-natal information may not be relevant to you, I think you might find you enjoy it.'

Fran knew for certain she wouldn't, and it had nothing to do with shame at being unexpectedly pregnant or finding it all irrelevant in the context of having the baby adopted. Ante-natal classes smacked of far too much socialising, people touching her stomach and asking personal questions. It was like the Girl Guides with more talk about vaginas. It was one-hundred per cent something she would detest.

It seemed even the midwife had accepted, at least for today, that she was fighting a losing battle. 'Your last scan was very clear and baby seems to be growing at the correct rate. If you could just pop up onto the bed, I'll take some measurements and check that.'

Fran objected to the word 'pop' silently as she swung her legs up onto the bed, the disposable sheet shifting and rustling underneath her. 'Popping' was something which was becoming increasingly difficult as her waistline expanded. She supposed the midwife would hardly use words like 'lumber' or 'heave' to describe how she got onto the bed, but 'pop' was just ridiculous.

'All looking good,' the midwife said eventually. 'You need to make an appointment to come back in three weeks' time. You'll have the option for some more screening tests then. Are you aware of any hereditary diseases in your family or that of the father's?'

Fran shook her head immediately. The Hardys were a healthy breed.

'Or the father's?' the midwife repeated gently. 'I know last time we spoke, he wasn't in the picture. Has that changed?'

Another shake of the head.

'If it is possible to get in touch with him, it will help us decide if you need any further tests.'

'Is it really necessary?'

'No.' The midwife paused. 'But it would be helpful.' Then, point made, she began putting all of Fran's notes together. 'Try and take things a bit easier over the next few weeks, see if you can bring that blood pressure down a little.'

Fran nodded and murmured and made all the right noises which got her out the room without any more demands being made upon her. She binned the leaflets about ante-natal classes once she'd left the clinic, glancing at her watch and picking up her speed: her break was long over. Cutting through the car park would be quicker than navigating the maze of corridors which she inevitably got lost within, so she ducked out of the nearest doors, pulling her coat around her and hoping today wouldn't be the day a button flew off.

An ambulance was just pulling out as she reached the front doors of the ED and Fran upped her pace again, keen to be involved in the action taking place behind those doors. It was easy for the midwife to suggest that she should be taking it easy, but she wasn't the one working on a bustling emergency department; there were no moments of down-time.

She was almost inside the door when a voice made her stop.

'You alright?'

Pausing, she glanced across at where Max was leaning against the building, ubiquitous cigarette clamped to his mouth. She briefly wondered if addiction was a hereditary disease and whether she ought to pass that onto the midwife; it certainly showed a weakness of character.

'Why wouldn't I be?' She found herself lifting her chin defiantly, as though he'd asked something controversial.

His wide-eyed stare suggested she'd over-reacted. 'No reason. I was just asking.' Then, sighing, he added, 'I overheard Tess. She said you had a midwife's appointment.'

'She had no right.'

'She was just explaining where you were to Connie!' Max defended the nurse. 'It's been… pretty busy while you've been gone.'

'I better get inside then.' She took a step nearer the doors.

'Is everything alright then?' It was said casually, as though it didn't matter.

'Fine.'

'Francesca!'

'What?' she demanded. 'Everything's fine.'

'With the-'

'Yes!' She cut him off, wishing this conversation had never started, and blaming the midwife for running late and forcing her to be here just when Max was taking a cigarette break. Given his penchant for this level of skiving, she supposed it could have happened at any time, but she needed somebody to direct her anger at. 'It's all fine.'

He continued staring at her then, dark eyes filled with a thousand unspoken things which she didn't want to hear. As one of them seemed to rise to the surface, she said the first thing which came into her head.

'Are there any hereditary conditions in your family?'

'What?'

Just barely keeping a lid on her irritation, she said, 'They run tests to see if there's anything wrong. They like to know if there's any conditions in the families. So, are there?'

He shook his head. 'No. Not that I know of.'

She nodded. 'Right. I better get inside then.'

She left before he had any chance to say anymore, exactly how she wanted.

* * *

Cal always tried to keep his face neutral when dealing with patients. It was something that he knew Fran was infinitely better at, but he'd rate his poker face highly even so.

Or he did until Rob Edgar called him out on it.

'That is not a good news face.'

'Am I that obvious?'

'It's a dad-thing, I think. You get good at reading body language.' Rob gestured towards his hand. 'What's the verdict?'

'I've asked a surgeon to come down and take a look.' Cal winced as he realised how casually he'd mentioned that. 'I mean…'

'You mean I'm going to be here for a while,' Rob concluded. 'Gotcha.'

'Can we call anyone for you?'

'My wife's got her hands full already. No pun intended.'

'I was thinking of your son. Just to let him know where you are?' Why Cal was getting involved, he had no idea. Whilst he was no Fran, he could usually separate the ailment from the person and not get himself so embroiled in their private lives that he carried their narratives home with him. It was yet another thing that appeared to have fallen apart today.

Rob shook his head. 'No, it's fine. I'll… text him or something.'

The curiosity wouldn't leave him alone. 'How old is he?'

'Twenty two.'

'Wow.' Cal was instantly aware he'd crossed a line. 'Sorry, that was out of line.'

'It's a pretty common reaction.' Rob smiled. 'Believe me, my wife was suitably astonished. It didn't really register with me until I saw his Facebook page. I do not feel old enough to have a twenty-two-year-old.'

That was unsurprising; Cal didn't feel old enough to have a child of any age, and here was somebody barely a few years older than him with two whole families. Cal worked alongside twenty-two-year-olds, they were real people with lives and personalities of their own. He knew there were people his age and younger with kids. People he'd trained with and worked with before coming to Holby had wives or partners, and kids and Golden Retrievers and family estates and houses and gardens. Sometimes he wondered what he'd managed to achieve in the same time. But this was something on a whole new level.

'You said it was the first time you were going to meet him.' Why was he still here? This was none of his business, didn't even relate to him on any level. He didn't have any long-lost children – or at least, none that he was aware of, whatever certain ex-girlfriends tried to make him believe. This shouldn't interest him.

Yet Rob seemed to want to talk, spilling out details as if at confession. 'I was only seventeen, it was… I'm trying to stop using the word _mistake_ , but it definitely wasn't planned. His mum wanted to keep him but after a while she couldn't cope. By then, I'd moved away to university and when she decided to have him adopted I didn't argue.' As if compelled to, he added, 'It's not something I'm proud of.'

'And he only just found you?'

'He's been meeting his mum – his birth mum – for a couple of years. Then he tracked me down.' Rob shrugged. 'We've been emailing for a few months. I'm just not sure I want our first meeting to be here.'

Cal could appreciate that. People were at their most vulnerable in hospital and a meeting like Rob had planned would need you to be at your best. By the sounds of it, he was already enough on the back-foot to need all the help he could get.

'I'll see if I can chase the surgeon up,' he said now.

'Got any favours you can call in?' Rob joked. 'Don't worry too much, I'll… rearrange.' Pulling out his phone, he began to tap out a message, presumably to the long-lost son.

Cal ducked out of the cubicle. He didn't know why he was so bothered. Rob seemed like a nice guy, but lots of people seemed nice; in fact, most people in the ED were reasonable people who didn't deserve whatever had happened to them. It didn't mean they needed strings pulled for them or special favours called in. Treating people equally was a basic requirement of being a doctor, and he knew that preferential treatment was one way of bringing down the wrath of Connie Beauchamp upon him. The surgeon would get here eventually and Rob could reschedule his son and no harm would be done in the long run.

Picking up the receiver, he dialled orthopaedics and rehearsed a compelling argument for why Rob Edgar needed to be their top priority for today.

* * *

'I've found us another gig.'

Max swallowed the sandwich he was eating rather too quickly and coughed. 'You've what?' he spluttered in response to Lofty's maniacal grin.

'I've found us another gig. They want us to play at the pub.'

'Really?' Max didn't know why he found it so unlikely. People had seemed to enjoy their one-song performance and he'd certainly done well out of it. Even looking at it objectively, he thought they'd done pretty well. He still hadn't expected to be asked back specially.

'Three songs next Tuesday.'

'Do we have three songs?'

'We could get three songs.' Lofty was fizzing with excitement; this was presumably something like what happened when he ingested caffeine. 'We could definitely get three songs.' Then, 'Why aren't you excited?'

'I am.'

'Might want to tell your face that.'

Max felt the first genuine smile cross his face for weeks. In amongst all of his extra-curricular activities and avoiding Robyn, he'd missed his best mate. 'I am excited! I'm just not sure we're ready.'

'We can practise. I've got tomorrow off.'

'So have I…'

'But?' Lofty rolled his eyes. 'Niamh? Get in there!'

'It isn't anything.' Max shook his head. Spending his day off with Niamh hadn't been his idea anyway; it had very definitely come from her, which now set him wondering whether she was quite as independent as he'd first thought.

'Like Kirsty wasn't anything?' Lofty gave him a doubtful look. 'Max, are you okay?'

He knew why he was asking. Lofty had never known the lothario Max; almost as soon as he'd crashed into their lives, Max had been more than smitten with Zoe Hanna. This sleeping around and changing women more often than he changed his socks was new territory and Max guessed that, looking from the outside in, it was concerning. It didn't look much better from where he was standing.

But it wouldn't do for Lofty to realise that. It was a tactic Max had learned years ago, back when his home had been a warzone and his little brother Simon had found his only refuge in his bedroom. If you pretended things didn't bother you, it was almost as though they didn't. As long as nobody else knew, it didn't matter.

So now he said, 'Why wouldn't I be? I'm young, free, single and having the time of my life. What's not to enjoy?'

All too late he realised his mistake.

'Max, when you've finished revealing the details of your love life to the department at large, could you take Mrs Lucas in cubicle five to x-ray please?' Tess's request was polite, but there was an edge of steel underneath it. She was not impressed by his comments.

Suitably cowed, Max said, 'Sure. I'll get right to it.' He turned to act on her instructions.

And then he realised his other mistake as he came face-to-face with Francesca. He hadn't thought she could look any more disgusted with him than she had done over the past few months. He'd been wrong. Replaying his words in his head, he heard them in a different way, a gloating way, and he knew how unpleasant they sounded. That they weren't true was no consolation.

'Francesca,' he said as she walked away from him and he struggled to keep up. He didn't know why he felt the need to say, 'What I was saying… I didn't exactly-'

She turned those cold eyes on him. 'What makes you think I was even listening?'

A fair point. Even so…

'What you do with your life is nothing to do with me. So don't worry about it.'

He knew she was right. Francesca had made it more than clear that she didn't give him a second thought when she made decisions; he should do the same. That didn't make him feel any more cheerful.

* * *

'Thank you so much,' Cal greeted the surgeon, already hearing how obsequious he was sounding and unable to stop himself. 'I really appreciate it.'

The surgeon gave him a disdainful look as he took Rob Edgar's notes and scanned through them on the way to the cubicle. 'I was told this was a high-priority emergency,' he remarked drily, seemingly unconvinced by what he saw. 'Does Mr Edgar rely on his left hand for anything in particular?'

'You'd have to ask him that,' Cal quipped, silently cringing behind the surgeon's back. He'd never know why he fawned over his superiors like this. If this was the zone he was in, he needed to get back out of it before the dinner this evening.

Hastily trying to rescue the situation, Cal tried to keep pace with the surgeon. 'He cut his hand open cutting vegetables. It's a deep cut and I just wanted to get it checked out.'

The surgeon didn't reply as he pulled the cubicle curtain back.

'Mr Edgar?' he checked before continuing smoothly on with, 'I'm Mr Andrews, I'm the orthopaedic surgeon. Can I take a look?' He didn't wait for a reply as he began inspecting the wound.

Rob raised his eyebrows at Cal. 'What's the verdict?' he asked, a question which received no response from Mr Andrews and only a pained smile from Cal.

At that moment, Lofty appeared. 'Mr Edgar? There's a man in reception, says he's your son?'

For the first time, there was a real flicker of alarm on Rob's face. 'I told him not to come,' he muttered.

Lofty hesitated. 'Should I… tell him to go away?' As if he'd have the nerve to do that, Cal thought; there was nobody quite as soft as Lofty in the department, perhaps in the hospital as a whole. Even now, his eyes were pleading with Rob to intervene and prevent him from being the bad guy.

To which, because Rob was a nice guy, he obliged: 'No, it's fine. Show him through.'

Mr Andrews finally straightened up. 'There's a small incision in the tendon. It should be fine with a stitch through it. If there's any difficulty in movement, contact your GP in the next three to four weeks.' He conveyed his derision effortlessly, without even trying, as he pulled the surgical gloves off with a snap and threw Cal a glance. 'If I'm not needed elsewhere, I'll be heading back upstairs.'

Cal watched him go, in awe as always of the casual rudeness some surgical consultants peddled. Whenever he began to believe Mrs Beauchamp wasn't real, was some test sent down from on high for them all, he remembered her former specialism, and things made sense again.

Turning back to Rob, he said, 'Sorry to make you wait so long.'

'No, it's fine,' Rob insisted. 'Thank you for checking everything. So what happens now?'

'I'll stitch it up for you,' Cal explained, 'and then you should be good to go.'

'Great.' Rob nodded, his words belying the pallor that had taken over his face. 'Can we get started on that soon?'

'Sure. Let me just grab what I need.'

Heading out to get the suture kit, Cal watched as Lofty showed a young man in. 'Young' was a relative term in the situation; this guy looked no younger than the nurse did, and Cal was surprised by how easily he could relate to him. Sometimes he forgot he wasn't that young, was surprised by what he saw in the mirror. Drawn back to the cubicle by some force he couldn't quite identify, he returned as soon as he could, suture kit in hand.

'Just get you stitched up and then you'll be on your way,' he said, faux-cheerful as he entered the tense atmosphere. It wasn't unpleasant, it was just uncomfortable. 'I'm Doctor Knight,' he said, glancing at the man.

'Luke,' he said, teenager-sullen. Cal remembered that too.

'You don't have to wait with me,' Rob said. 'I won't be long.'

'It's fine.' Luke shook his head, although the way he eyed up his father's wound suggested he might be better off out of the way. 'We can still do something.'

'Yeah, sure.' Rob nodded.

The silence descended again as Cal closed the wound with a few stitches. They weren't especially neat, but they were small and effective; there wouldn't be much of a scar. Snipping the end of the thread off, he resisted the urge to finish with a flourish, instead saying, 'All done. I'll get one of the nurses to dress it properly. Keep it clean and come back in about five days to have the dressing changed. Make an appointment at your GP surgery to have the stitches out in around ten days.'

Rob nodded. 'Thanks for your help.'

'Maybe next time you can get one of the kids to do the chopping,' Cal quipped.

For the second time that day, his joke felt pancake-flat. He wasn't sure if he was first alerted to his mistake via Rob's unsubtle wince, or Luke's sudden start backwards. They happened pretty simultaneously, so he felt he didn't really need to make a choice.

'Kids?' Luke echoed him. 'You've got… kids?'

Cal refrained from stating the obvious; humour wasn't his strong-point today. Besides, he was almost as surprised as Luke was. He knew assumptions were dangerous things, but Rob seemed like a straight-up guy. There was an honesty to the way he talked about Luke and their whole situation that meant his omitting to mention his new family didn't make sense.

'You never said you had kids. How old?'

'Twelve and eight.' Rob hesitated before adding, 'I was going to tell you, I just wanted to meet you first. I wanted to…'

'Decide whether I was good enough to meet them?' Luke challenged him. 'Your real family?'

'I've never thought like that. Just calm down and we can talk about this. Give me five minutes.'

Luke stared him down. 'No, I… I think we might need to re-think today.'

'Oh come on Luke!'

'I need to think about things.' Luke shrugged, almost pure teenager now, as if it was always just beneath the surface waiting to get out. 'I'll be in touch.'

'Luke!' Rob exclaimed, but he'd gone, and Cal blinked, unsure how things had escalated quite so quickly.

Instinct made him say, 'Sorry, I didn't-'

'It's fine,' Rob replied, shaking his head. 'It's my own fault. I… I haven't actually told my wife I'm meeting him yet, either.' Lifting his head up, he gave Cal a pointed look. 'Only got myself to blame, right?'

Cal declined to comment, concerned he might actually agree. 'I'll get a nurse to dress that for you,' he said, before leaving the cubicle.

* * *

In hindsight, Ethan knew he should have been aware of the warning signs, but in the moment, they hadn't seemed like much more than minor quirks in the woman he had yet to quite work out. By the end of the night, he felt like he knew Tiffany a little more and wished he didn't.

It started with the outfit. He knew he should have reacted more coolly, reacted less, to the black dress she'd liberally poured herself into. Coupled with her voluminous blow-dry and slick of red lipstick, she looked incredible and terrifying in equal amounts. He thought he should probably have communicated that to his face a little better.

Instead, all he managed was a wordless stare, not even returning her greeting. Staying quiet in the face of the unknown was a bit of a Hardy trait, at least in this generation; it was borne out of necessity as David Hardy always had something to say about everything. Ethan momentarily wished he was here now, filling the silence. The trouble was, he had an idea what his father would say, and it wouldn't be especially complimentary.

Finally, when he still hadn't put the car into gear, she broke the silence. 'Is something wrong?'

'N-no… no.'

'You're looking at me like something's wrong.'

'Nothing's wrong.'

'Is it me? Am I wrong?'

'You're fine.'

'This took three hours. For "fine"?' She snorted.

'You look… nice.' Then, hastily, 'You look amazing.' It was true, even if it was more than he'd usually say. She did look incredible, breath-taking, _amazing_. He just wasn't sure she looked quite right for the corporate event they were on their way to, and he wished that didn't matter so much to him.

His words seemed to mollify her, or at least something did, as she fell silent on the drive to the museum. It was an unusual venue for a hospital fundraiser, but then Ethan thought he was an unusual guest. They wanted people with a large disposable income, and he was only just beginning to pay a pretty extortionate mortgage on a disappointingly small flat. Being a junior doctor, particularly in the ED, wasn't the way to a fast buck. This was merely an opportunity to be seen and to talk to some of the more affluent and powerful members of the hospital. There might be a day when Ethan needed them.

He still wasn't sure why he'd extended the invite to Tiffany. They'd only been dating, if that's what this was, for a month, so she couldn't have expected it. What's more, he wasn't sure she was even looking forward to it; her reaction when he'd invited her had been distinctly low-key, almost disinterested. Even now, she was staring ahead, face completely unreadable. She might have spent hours getting ready, but she looked like she was being taken to her execution. He hadn't known that spending time with him would be such a chore.

The past month had been a revelation in some ways. From that first tumble of clothes across her already debris-filled flat, Ethan had known that this wasn't the sort of relationship he was used to. Waking up the next morning, he didn't think he could have been any further from his own minimalist apartment on the canal. Her bedroom was heavy with stale smoke and perfume, cosmetics and clothes scattered in all directions. There was a chaos in the flat that was unsettling and alluring in equal amounts; she'd lived there under three months yet it was more of a home than he'd made his in nearly double the time. Drinking instant coffee from chipped mugs, he was surprised to find how much he wanted to have a second invite.

A plaintive wailing from the window had made him rethink that momentarily. It sounded as though there was a murder taking place only feet away from them. Yet Tiffany didn't seem bothered, getting up casually, California-tan still only just fading on her legs, and opening the window. A huge ginger cat jumped inside, sinewy muscle rippling along every inch of it as it stalked across the room and regarded him with a suspicious stare. Ethan had never liked cats much, and this one seemed to know and return the favour.

'Oh God! Sorry, he's got a thing about men,' Tiffany rolled her eyes and carelessly scooped the cat up in one hand where it instantly became the sort of fawning animal Ethan usually only associated with dogs. It curled itself around her neck like a scarf and emitted a purr like a steam train.

'He really likes you.'

'He's just passing through. He doesn't even have a name.' Tiffany stroked the cat carelessly, returning to bed as if she didn't have several kilograms of feline around her neck. 'He came with the flat.'

It was the sort of comment he'd grown used to hearing over the past four weeks. Tiffany lived her life temporarily, as if she might be on her way elsewhere at any moment. In the dark of the night, she'd talk about what she was going to do 'later' or 'afterwards', when her time in Holby was over. It was unspecified when this chapter of her life would close, but she seemed certain that it would. Yet then she'd throw out the strange comments like the one only last weekend. Talking about places they'd been, she'd expressed a sudden burning desire to visit Italy, insistent that they should go that summer, take an extended break and see all of the sights and sounds the country had to offer. It seemed she intended to stick around at least until next autumn.

Yet none of that explained why he'd invited her tonight. As they pulled into the car park they'd been directed to, valet service apparently reserved for people with much nicer cars than he had, one glance at her showed that this wasn't the social highlight of her calendar. Underneath the orange street-lighting, her skin looked sallow, her eyes black pits. She wobbled as she got out of the car, then righted herself.

For the first time, he asked, 'Are you alright?'

'Yeah, sure.' She nodded and stared up at the slab of white building in front of them. 'God, why are museums always so ugly?'

He looked. It was the sort of monolithic structure that most people saw as something wondrous from the nineteenth century. Most Americans gushed over this kind of architecture. Of course, Tiffany wasn't most Americans.

'It's over a hundred years old,' he said, redundantly. Matching opinion with fact was the lazy way out of a discussion.

'It's still ugly. Some old white guy's vision of history.'

Ethan suppressed a smile. 'Shall we go in?'

It took a moment for her to nod, shrugging, and follow him towards the door. Ethan had been on a few dates with her now and couldn't ever remember her being so quiet. If he wasn't so sure that he at least knew something about her by now, he might have thought she was nervous. It seemed so unlikely though; Tiffany being anxious in anyway was something he couldn't even imagine. He put it down to being tired. It had been one hell of a long day.

'We don't have to stay long,' he said as they walked in the door.

The smile sprang to her lips as if she'd ordered it there. 'We can stay as long as you like,' she promised, the words studied like lines in a play. 'Shall we get a drink?'

He didn't know quite when he lost sight of her. He remembered introducing her to some of his superiors at the hospital, then she'd wandered away, by mutual consent or so it had seemed. He'd continued meeting and greeting people, trying his best to disassociate himself with Cal who seemed to be embarrassing himself with every other word, and she'd continued doing whatever it was she was doing, and they were both adults so that was alright.

Or this was what he told himself on the way home as he tried to absolve himself of any of the blame for what had happened to her.

* * *

Cal sucked at networking. He felt, at the age of thirty-four, it was about time that he admitted that, to himself if no-one else. Socialising he was good at, socialising he understood. That was a mixture of flirting and joking, both things he'd rate himself highly at. Networking was very different and he wasn't sure he'd ever get any better at it.

Ethan, on the other hand, was a whizz at it, which didn't make sense. Usually so awkward and socially-inept, his little brother had the right kind of golden boy looks and manners to attract the old duffers who made up the upper echelons of the hospital. The way he was working the room this evening, Ethan would soon be on a fast-track to taking over Connie Beauchamp's job. Cal was torn between feeling pride and envy. Perhaps this was the sort of thing boarding school taught you; whilst Cal had been practising his smoking, Ethan had been practising secret handshakes. Not for the first time, Cal wished he hadn't been such an angry kid who'd lacked the foresight to see the benefits of a top-class education. When David Hardy had offered Lannister House to him as a motivational reward, all he'd seen was another man in his life who wanted rid of him, and he'd had enough of them for one lifetime.

So, giving up his attempts to sweet-talk the great and the good of Holby City Hospital, Cal fell back on the complimentary drinks. It took several for the tensions of the day to dissipate, and even more for him to be able to think about the Rob Edgar situation rationally. Patients never affected him like this, especially not such mundane routine ones as Rob had been. After all these years, Cal was mostly been able to leave work at work. A patient like Rob was unusual, and he didn't really like the reason why. Drinking helped him to sort the problems out, and by the time he'd knocked back his fifth flute of champagne (a drink he'd never much enjoyed, but enjoyed slightly more when it was free), he concluded that he'd just had an off-day. He was able to put to bed the silent fears that had been reawakened when Luke had looked into his father's eyes, betrayed all over again, and forget about his own devastation one Christmas over twenty years ago. He'd pushed it all aside rather neatly by the time he came across Tiffany Gray.

Tiffany's interest in Ethan had been the source of many whispers in the department over the past few weeks. Interested curious whispers rather than snidey whispers: Ethan was a much-liked member of staff, and after the year he'd had, most people only wanted the best for him. Cal fell firmly into that camp, yet he couldn't help agreeing with the wonderings. What did they talk about when they left work behind? What did they even _do_? What could possibly satisfy both the party girl and the nerdy guy? What did they see in each other?

At about the time that thought passed Cal's mind for at least the hundredth time since he'd learned of their first date, he saw her.

The first thing he thought was she looked good. Completely inappropriate for a hospital fundraiser, sure, but easily the best looking woman in the museum that evening. It helped that she had the sort of glow that only somebody raised on sunshine could inhabit, and that she wasn't afraid to show it off. Leaning up against the wall, nonchalantly twirling a strand of hair around one finger, she was reminiscent of girls in musicals set in the 50s who were trouble with a capital T. He was mesmerised.

Then the guy she was flirting with put a hand on her waistline, and she looked entirely unable to fight him off even if she wanted to, and something primordial was switched on inside of him. Tiffany was nothing to him apart from the person his little brother had liked the most in the longest time. That seemed to be enough.

'I think I'll take it from here,' he said, cutting firmly between the two of them.

'Hey!' The man reacted as Cal himself would have done in the circumstances. He risked a glance at him, deemed him to be even more junior than he was, and brushed him off. 'Hey!' the guy repeated. 'I was only helping her.'

'And I've got it,' Cal replied, turning back to Tiffany with such resolve that the guy stalked off to console himself with another glass of champagne and another girl.

Tiffany was less easy to placate. Glowering, she said, 'What's with the Conan act? I was only talking.'

'And you usually do that draped all over a bloke?' Maybe she did. It did seem like something she might do. Now she was staring up at him out of those black-ringed eyes and he could sort of see how that might work.

As if she read his mind, she smiled sloppily and said, 'Were you jealous?'

A little. Maybe. That wasn't the point.

'How drunk are you?'

'There's a scale?'

Despite himself, his mouth twitched into a smile. It was a good answer to a dumb question. But if he had to answer for her, he'd say _very_ drunk. Her pupils were dilated and her make-up was beginning to look more clown-like by the second. He had a suspicion she was leaning up against a wall out of necessity more than seduction and decided the wisest move was to get her to a seat, quickly.

He'd reckoned without Tiffany herself though.

'I can walk fine!' she protested, before wobbling like Bambi in her ridiculous shoes and proving herself so very wrong. It likely wasn't the most elegant journey she'd made and it was only when she was seated that he realised how much of her weight had been resting on his shoulders. He rotated them tentatively, aware how many gym visits he'd missed recently.

She didn't look too bad. A bit wobbly, yes, and he didn't envy her tomorrow's hangover, but she wasn't in immediate danger of alcohol poisoning. In any other setting, she wouldn't even have seemed drunk; Cal had seen far worse in student union bars and rugby clubs in the past. Against the marble of the museum, though, she seemed entirely wrong: a creature from another planet dropped into an atmosphere that was toxic for her. She didn't belong here. He wondered what had ever possessed Ethan to bring her along.

Speaking of which: 'Where's Ethan?'

She shrugged. Then, as he made to find his brother, she caught at his jacket. 'Don't,' she mumbled. Looking up beseechingly at him, smudged mascara even more pathetic, she added, 'He's busy.'

He stared back at her. It sounded like a reasonable description of Ethan: he was busy, he always was. It was a standard state of being for the Hardys, or at least it was their go-to excuse for why they couldn't ever come and play. Learnt from David who used the word like a get-out-of-jail-free card, both Ethan and Fran reaped the rewards of claiming to have too much else to do for mundane matters. Too busy for this, though… Cal looked at Tiffany again. He wasn't sure he'd ever been too busy for… well, _this_.

'Did he tell you that?'

She shook her head. 'He is, though. He's talking to people.' She waved vaguely in entirely the wrong direction, indicating a waiter who barely looked old enough to be serving alcohol instead of the doctor they were talking about. 'I'm not very good at that.'

Cal raised his eyebrows. 'You, no good at talking?'

The smile which creased her lips didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes stayed looking sad. 'Not like this.'

Sighing, Cal sat down beside her. 'Yeah. Me either.' Something in common. He hadn't expected that. 'What was with Gropy Guy?' When she frowned, he gestured with his thumb towards where she'd been slumped against the wall.

'I was bored.'

Yep. He knew that one too.

He was about to say something more, finding he was enjoying this conversation more than he should be, when two things happened. One, Ethan rounded the corner, looking harassed and as if he was looking for something. Or someone, Cal reasoned, looking at the woman sat next to him.

The second thing was that Tiffany was suddenly, violently and unceremoniously sick over Cal's shoes.

* * *

The drive home was even more awkward than the drive to the museum had been. Also more fraught with peril as Ethan hoped against hope that Tiffany's vomiting was over now and she'd at least make it inside her front door before going in for round two; his upholstery wouldn't withstand such an assault.

Cal's presence was no balm on the wound either. Rather than see his brother as a support, somebody to help him with the girl who was currently no help to herself, Ethan just kept thinking how much he wished Cal hadn't witnessed this evening. And from there came the familiar chain of thoughts where he wished his brother had stayed firmly away from Holby, burying his head in the sand somewhere else, anywhere else in the world so long as he wasn't breathing down Ethan's neck. They were only marginally more comforting than they were boring.

Pulling up outside Tiffany's flat, Ethan glanced over his shoulder at where Tiffany was slumped in the backseat. The embarrassment of the evening fading slightly, he regretted what he'd said back at the museum. Networking always left him useless for any other kind of interaction, yet another reason why he should never have invited her. It hadn't been much of an evening for her, after all, and he was sure she wouldn't have minded missing out. They might have saved the museum floor and Cal's good shoes as well. Looking at her now, he felt bad for his words and his anger mellowed into pity.

'You might have to help her inside.'

Pity dissipated instantly. 'Yes, thank you, Cal. Since when did you become the font of all knowledge?'

'I know getting drunk girls home.'

Ethan gave his brother a withering look. 'You really shouldn't sound so proud of that.' Getting out the car, he slammed the door behind him before opening Tiffany's door. She blinked sleepily, like an animal awakening from slumber, and he felt himself soften again. 'Come on, Tiffany.'

'Do you want some help?'

'We're fine.' Ethan gritted his teeth as he half-dragged Tiffany from the car. She stumbled and almost fell, and he almost entirely failed to catch her. Swallowing his curses, he somehow managed to guide her to her front door, where she eventually resorted to her spare key after much fumbling, and then stood, leaning in the doorway.

'Are you… coming in?' she asked, traces of that temptation he'd fallen for before.

He shook his head. 'I can't. Sleep well.' Then he turned away before she could melt his resolve. He had no doubt she could do that as easily as blinking.

'Is she alright?' Cal asked as soon as he got back in the car.

'She's fine.'

'Don't you want to stay and check?'

'Since when did you care?'

'Hey!' Cal held his hands up in protest. 'She's your girlfriend. I was only trying to be helpful.'

There was a novel concept: Cal being helpful. All Ethan could offer in response was: 'She's not my girlfriend.' Technically true as it was, it was pathetic and entirely irrelevant here. She had attended the event as his guest, which made him partially responsible. Irritation with that fact made him add, 'You didn't have to get involved.'

'Just as well I did. I didn't see you doing much.'

'I was networking!' He probably shouldn't be driving when he was this wound-up. 'You were meant to be doing the same.'

Cal's reply was note-worthy only in it being entirely absent, and Ethan knew why. Networking wasn't Cal's thing, hence why he'd stayed firmly clear of his older brother this evening. Cal's sense of humour was entirely too inappropriate for corporate events like this. Finding him propping up Ethan's inebriated date had been far less of a surprise than it might have been in many other families.

They drove in silence for several minutes.

Then Cal said, 'What you said was pretty harsh you know.'

That was true and Ethan knew it, so he said, 'Nobody asked you.'

'I was only saying!'

'Well don't.'

And so they drove home in complete silence.

* * *

 ** _Next time: Young and Reckless_**

 _'How's the guy?' Tiffany gestured indoors._

 _'Alright. I mean, he'll be in plaster for a while and they'll keep him in overnight. But he's alright.' Then, pleased to have found something he could talk about, Ethan said, 'What goes through their heads? How could this ever seem like a good idea?' When Tiffany didn't reply beyond a shrug, he asked, 'You can't think it's a good idea?'_

 _'Oh I don't know. It's… fun, it's exciting. Come on, Granddad, live a little!'_

 _'This is living? That's living?' He thought of the shattered human on the bed in front of Fran. How could any moment of exhilaration make up for whatever life he had left in front of him?_

 _'They're just kids. Kids do dumb stuff.' She was so nonchalant, and her age struck him for the first time. Her youth he supposed. He hadn't thought about it before because why would he? Once you were out in the world, age was just a number. But she was young. He felt suddenly ancient in comparison. Truthfully, he thought he might have felt ancient beside her even when he was twenty-five, eighteen, sixteen._

 _Then she said, 'Haven't you ever just wanted to do something even though you know it's dangerous?'_

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'Same Mistakes (Fall for Your Type)' by Drake


	14. Interlude 1

**This is a real experiment. In writing this story, I've tried to envisage this as a series (or 2... it's very long). To that end, I've imagined each chapter as an episode. I'm trying to play with viewpoints and style at the moment so this is a bit of a play - I see this as a webisode or something! It is very skippable if you're short for time.**

 **But if you're brave and try it - let me know what you think.**

* * *

 _It's first thing in the morning and she looks like hell so he has to ask: 'Good night last night?'_

 _The look she flashes him speaks far louder than any words could. She's not in the mood for this, and she's almost certainly not in the mood to be nagged either. It will come better from him than anybody else though, so he says, 'That's the third night in a row.'_

' _Oh, you're keeping count?'_

' _I bet Dixie is.' Trying not to sound too frustrated, he says what he's wanted to say for the past four days. 'Just call him.'_

' _Who?'_

 _She's actually going to do this, pretend she has no idea what he's talking about. It's a game she plays pretty regularly judging from what he's learned about her over the months. She just hasn't done it recently._

 _Refusing to play, he acts like she's not spoken. 'He's a nice guy. He probably didn't mean it.'_

 _She gives a derisive snort and he knows she's seen through his bluff. If the story she's related is even halfway to the truth of what happened the other night, she probably deserved it. Other men would have reacted a whole lot differently, and probably wouldn't even have got her safely home. She was lucky._

' _You could always apologise.' She's fantastic at apologies, which is just as well as she needs to make them so often. When she says sorry, you believe her, and that's why she's so dangerous._

 _Now she says nothing. The silent treatment. Something else she's great at._

 _With a sigh, he gets up. 'You want a coffee?'_

 _A silent nod. Today's going to be dreadful._


	15. Young and Reckless

**Back to the usual format today. Apologies for my terrible knowledge of cars here - I had to do some serious digging through forums for information.**

* * *

 _We're young and we're reckless. We'll take this way too far. It'll leave you breathless or with a nasty scar._

Ethan's no-call rule had seemed entirely reasonable when he'd instigated it shortly after getting home from the museum that night. If Tiffany wanted to apologise, she could pick up the phone herself; Ethan was not playing that game. Not sharing a single shift with her in the days since had only solidified his certainty that he was in the right, and he carried that right up until the moment he set eyes on her as Dixie swung the ambulance door open.

'This is Leon, he's been involved in an RTC, travelling at approximately ninety miles per hour at the moment of impact. Compound fracture of the femur, bruising to the chest. Sats of 90, bp is eighty five over fifty, we've given him five grams of morphine. No loss of consciousness.'

Ethan stole one brief glance at Tiffany, and found her doing anything but looking at him. She was acting completely professionally. That was something he hadn't expected, and he wasn't sure why. Whatever she did outside of work, however she behaved, she was a good paramedic.

'Ninety miles an hour?' Lofty questioned.

'Illegal drag racing,' Dixie explained, rolling her eyes. 'We've got another one behind us.'

'Okay, let's get a cross-match on bloods. I'd like an MRI as well.' Ethan directed the staff as they pulled into resus. 'Lofty, can you arrange that?'

'Sure thing.'

Leon's injuries were slight given the speed he'd been travelling at. In the next hour, Ethan ascertained that, against all the odds, there was no internal bleeding and the chest bruising was the result of the lifesaving airbag doing its job, and doing it very well. The femur was well and truly broken, and the mess it had made on piercing through his skin was unpleasant to look at but on the whole, Ethan wasn't too concerned about his patient's condition. It could have been a hell of a lot worse.

That was only made more obvious by the state that Fran's patient was in. The other driver was yet to regain consciousness and was haemorrhaging from all manner of places. It was the sort of high-drama that Ethan's sister thrived on and he had to admit it was nice to see her enjoying something again, concerning as that enjoyment was. As the weeks had gone by, little had caused Fran to look anything more than mildly engaged. Ethan supposed that the extra weight she was carrying wouldn't do much to raise anybody's spirits, but there was more to it than that. In amongst his drama with Tiffany, he'd neglected his sister somewhat; he needed to rectify that soon.

The priority now was to take a break though. Night shifts were the worst, and this one was already feeling as though it was going to be a busy one. Teenagers taking part in illegal street racing were just adding to the usual mess of people who kept the staff on their toes. What possessed them to take part in something so dangerous and so ridiculous, Ethan didn't know. It was easy to blame their age and boredom and a hundred other things, but he didn't know that there was ever a reason why young people did as they did. The very fact that he was referring to them as 'young people' made him shudder: he was becoming old way before his time.

There was a criticism that could never be levelled at Tiffany. He didn't know why he thought of her now, as he collected a coffee from the shop and stared out of the staffroom window at the lights flashing past the hospital. That brief moment of eye contact was all the contact he'd had with her, all the contact he'd _wanted_ with her, for nearly a week now. His phone had stayed silent, he'd walked the corridors of the hospital without once hearing her teasing laughter. It had been easier than he would have expected to cut her out of his life, even for such a short period of time. Easy, but thoroughly unexciting.

His feet carried him out the front door. Almost midnight in late March and he didn't even notice the cold. All he noticed was her, Tiffany, leaning up against the side of the hospital, cigarette smoke curling up. The ambulance and Dixie were nowhere to be seen, suggesting she'd once again slunk off when the less interesting parts of the job began. She was like Cal, Ethan realised: fantastic at her job until it became boring. He imagined Dixie was even now cursing the Californian, their working relationship never having moved far beyond a vague tolerance. Not that it seemed to bother Tiffany.

Now he was here, his brain caught up again, and he had no idea what he could say. The only words he could think of were those he'd levelled at her upon seeing her at the museum, words borne of exhaustion and frustration and panic. They'd been wrong then and they'd definitely be wrong now. If he'd been ashamed of her then ( _'Have you any idea how embarrassing this is?'_ ), he was ashamed of himself now, and that was a far far worse feeling.

So he stood, staring at her, wondering where he was going to find the right words from.

'You seriously think this is short-sleeve weather?' Tiffany raised an eyebrow at him.

Ethan glanced down at his scrubs. 'Oh, I… didn't really think.' Now she mentioned it, he was a little cold.

'How's the guy?' She gestured indoors.

'Alright. I mean, he'll be in plaster for a while and they'll keep him in overnight. But he's alright.' Then, pleased to have found something he could talk about, he said, 'What goes through their heads? How could this ever seem like a good idea?' When Tiffany didn't reply beyond a shrug, he asked, 'You can't think it's a good idea?'

'Oh I don't know. It's… fun, it's exciting. Come on, Granddad, live a little!'

'This is living? _That's_ living?' He thought of the shattered human on the bed in front of Fran. How could any moment of exhilaration make up for whatever life he had left in front of him?

'They're just kids. Kids do dumb stuff.' She was so nonchalant, and her age struck him for the first time. Her _youth_ he supposed. He hadn't thought about it before because why would he? Once you were out in the world, age was just a number. But she was young. He felt suddenly ancient in comparison. Truthfully, he thought he might have felt ancient beside her even when he was twenty-five, eighteen, sixteen.

Then she said, 'Haven't you ever just wanted to do something even though you know it's dangerous?'

No. Very definitely not. Ethan had been careful and considerate and mindful and law-abiding from the moment he could crawl. Danger came with warning lights and red triangles and sirens. He stayed away from it; he always had. There was nothing exciting about tempting fate, and if he ever had desired to liven things up, he'd left it to Cal. It had almost never ended well.

The cigarette was almost finished, giving up its last flickers of flame before it gave up the ghost. Then her break would be over and she'd be off in the ambulance. The shift would drift on, then it would finish and he'd go home. Alone. All very safe. All very dull.

'Do you want to do something when your shift's over?' His words surprised her just as much as they surprised him. Given the last time they'd done anything at the end of their shift had ended in a silence of deafening proportions, he supposed she had a right to have been caught unawares. This wasn't a logical move.

She smoked the end of her cigarette and ground it out on the wall before dropping it into the bin. It seemed as though his invitation had been brushed aside just as easily, and he knew it was deserved. He hadn't even apologised. She had every reason to walk away and forget he'd ever asked.

'Like what?'

It was his turn to be surprised. 'Whatever you want.'

She looked at him, seemingly weighing him up. Then, 'Not a museum.'

A joke. He could take a joke. It was perhaps a little too early to be joking about this particular event, but he could foresee a time when it wouldn't be, when this would be a delightful anecdote to trot out at dinner parties. It was just an argument, nothing more.

'Not a museum,' he agreed.

She continued to watch him before smiling. 'I'll meet you here when the shift's over.'

Why did those words send a shiver down his spine, sounding like a threat and a promise rolled into one?

* * *

This was what should be on speed awareness courses, Fran thought, as she surveyed her patient's latest vital signs. Seeing somebody in this state, bones shattered, blood-smothered, would put anybody off speeding for life. This was what happened in a head-on collision at ninety miles an hour. Nobody in their right mind would consider risking their lives like this.

Of course, that was their problem. These were kids, nothing more, and kids weren't in their right mind. It was basically in the job description for being a teenager; recklessness was a requirement, or so Fran had concluded after her years in emergency medicine. Her own teenage years had been notable for being entirely risk free. Looking at the battered body in front of her, she couldn't help thinking that her way had been the better way.

'Pulse is stable,' Rita reported. 'Sats are improving. And ICU are ready and waiting with a bed.' She gave a smile. 'I'd call that a win all round.'

Fran wouldn't. There was very little here to feel proud of. Certainly the boy lying in the bed had nothing to be pleased with himself for. She could already imagine his bragging, the boasts of how amazing travelling at such a speed had been, and these few 'cuts and scratches' were more than worth it. And so it would begin again, another boy, another night, another horrific mess of flesh and bone on a hospital trolley. Sometimes it all became too predictable for words.

'Let's get him up to ICU,' was her only response.

Rita gave a brief nod, as if she'd remembered who she was talking to. 'I'll get a porter.'

Fran let her go, distracted by an intense pain in her side. The baby had shifted itself in the past few days and had been hammering against her ribs ever since. Apparently it slept even less than she did. That didn't endear her towards it. It only made her more keen for the next three months to pass by so that she could put this whole sorry episode behind her. This was where young and reckless got you, she though ominously, looking at her patient as she massaged her side. Here, and nowhere else.

The doors to resus opened and Rita re-entered, followed by Max. As ever, he looked once at Fran, his eyes filled with more words than Fran was willing to hear. Then he turned back to Rita.

'ICU, yeah?'

'Are we good to go?'

Fran nodded her consent.

'ICU it is.'

Then that moment, the one which always came, the one which Fran would give anything to avoid. Max's eyes fell on her again, his mouth opened and what she really didn't need to hear came out.

'Are you alright?'

Her hand dropped from her side instantly. 'Fine. Can you take him upstairs please?'

If he was disappointed, he didn't show it. He gave one nod and spoke no more as he helped Rita transfer the patient upstairs.

* * *

Max's childhood interest in cars had grown into an adult obsession, ironic considering he'd never owned his own set of wheels. The succession of entry level jobs he'd taken since graduating hadn't lent themselves to his acquiring a car, certainly not the sort of car he wanted. His last taste of being a driver had been in his brother Simon's car when he was away on holiday, and that had ended badly so he hadn't tried again.

But he couldn't help feeling sort of excited by the thought of drag racing. It was the sort of thing he would never have considered doing himself at that age, or at any age. The lack of a car was one thing, but facing the wrath of Annabel Miller if he ended up in a state like this was another; his mother was more of a deterrent than any number of war wounds would ever be.

Still, his mind was captured by the images from films and whilst Rita and Robyn and Lofty had been questioning who in their right mind would put themselves at such risk, he had been quietly admiring of these young men. _Boys_ , he supposed they were, more than ten years younger than him, a thought which was more disturbing than he might have imagined it would be. They'd gone after a thrill, they'd put themselves on the edge. True, it had ended particularly messily, but for one moment they'd been really living, and Max couldn't help feeling envious.

Nurse Niamh had kicked him out of her bed two nights ago and he'd limped back home, rent money in hand and several hundred grovelling epithets on his lips. He'd cooked dinner and done the dishes and even (grudgingly) pushed the vacuum cleaner around the house. All of which had made Robyn just about ready to forgive him for behaving like an idiot. Lofty, naturally, had said nothing.

He supposed this was what life was like. You got up, you came to work, you went home, you had dinner, you went to bed, repeat ad finitim. Hundreds of thousands of people did it every single day with no problems whatsoever. And he could do it, he could play that game. It wasn't that life was unbearable. It was just that he didn't really know why he was doing it, and that was why he was so jealous of these boys: at least they'd found something to fill the blank space.

Francesca's patient had remained unconscious on the trip to ICU, and Max wasn't saying that was a good thing. The guy was broken and crushed; it was almost impossible to believe that life could survive inside that shell. But it had, and that was amazing. Perhaps it was true that it just wasn't this guy's time to go, and if you believed in that…

 _If you believed in that, you'd be taking things way too far_ , he concluded as he re-entered the ED. What these boys had done was stupid and reckless and dangerous and very very stupid. That it was sounding like a pretty cool way to spend an evening was neither here nor there.

As if it made up for his less-than mature thoughts, Max did everything that was asked of him without question for the next hour or so, even the stuff he usually skirted and weren't even his job, like emptying bed-pans. The ED was short-staffed as usual and even though Rita was insistent that the nursing staff needed to stand firm and not be exploited, all Max could see was patients having an even worse day than they were already. Whatever he could do to fix that, he'd try.

Yet he still found himself drawn back to Ethan's patient, as though it was a reward for doing the right thing. The spinal board was now off following the all-clear from his scans, and he was awaiting a slot in theatre to have his leg pinned. He was bruised but very much not broken. The police were still roaming around outside, merely waiting for a nod from Ethan before they questioned him. Max privately thought it was a bit much to kick the guy when he was down. No family had yet arrived, so Max thought it was only fair that _somebody_ keep him company.

The topic of conversation was even easier than usual. 'So what kind of car is it?'

Leon lifted his head from his private contemplation, on guard, as if Max was acting as a spy on behalf of the law. 'You know anything about cars?' His scorn was probably deserved; despite his interest, Max's knowledge was likely only a tiny proportion of this boy's.

Still, he'd always been able to style this kind of thing out. 'This and that.' He shrugged.

Leon assessed him closely, before saying, 'Mazda RX-8.'

Max knew enough to know that was impressive. 'For real?'

Leon gestured towards his belongings until Max passed him his phone. 'Check her out.'

Max did. Where most guys would have a girlfriend, Leon had a car, a black gleaming beauty of a machine. It was obvious how much love and attention had been lavished on the vehicle, more a member of the family than a way of getting from A to B. So proud was Leon that Max was saddened to imagine what might have become of this car, his baby.

'How long have you had her?' he asked instead.

'Bought her when I was fifteen.' Leon shrugged when Max threw him a surprised look. 'My granddad died, left me some cash. I fixed her up.'

'She's looking good.'

'Yeah, you weren't at the crash.' Leon shook his head ruefully, looking at the picture on his screen.

'Wrecked?'

He shrugged again. 'We'll see.' Then, turning his attention back to Max, he asked, 'So what do you drive?'

'Nothing at the moment. What would you recommend?' He suddenly wanted Leon's opinion, wanted to know what kind of car he thought someone like Max would want. Perhaps that would give him something worth getting up for, the impetus to do something big. Buying a car wasn't going to change the world, but it would be something.

Leon's face cracked into an easy smile. 'Aw man, I've got just the girl for you. My cousin's selling her, his girlfriend's about to have a baby and the car is gone.' He made a slashing sign across his neck as he scrolled through his phone. 'Could get you a good deal if you like her.' He held the phone out towards Max. 'Honda NSX. 1995, seventy thousand miles – and that's crazy low – only thirty-four big ones for a mate.'

The car was striking, but even it wasn't far beyond Max's price range, he'd have doubts. 'It's yellow.'

'Yeah, I know. I told him it was a dumb re-spray.' Leon shook his head. 'Yellow's worse than red. Still, she's a sweet deal.'

'I'll bear it in mind,' Max said, grinning.

'I'll keep my eye out for something for you,' Leon promised, and Max really believed he would. There was something unfailingly likeable about the boy, which was why he was so irritated when their easy camaraderie was instantly shattered with the arrival of Tess.

'Leon? The police want to talk to you about what happened tonight.' Tess gestured to the officers behind her. 'Is that alright?'

Leon's open nature closed down again, his face becoming surly. He nodded his consent.

'I'll leave you to it.' Tess gave Max the tiniest of frowns. 'Max, could you give me a hand, please?'

Feeling much as though he was about to be grilled by the law as well, Max threw Leon what he hoped was a look of comradeship before falling into step with Tess. Hoping attack was the best form of defence, he opened with, 'I know what you're going to say, but I haven't had a break yet today and all I was doing was keeping him company.'

'Talking about cars.'

'Well, yeah, but…'

'To a boy that's being questioned about dangerous driving?' Tess gave him a disparaging look which he wasn't sure he fully deserved. 'You shouldn't be encouraging him.'

'We were just talking.' Then, aware that Tess was only saying what had to be said, he said, 'I'll get back to work.'

He spent his lunch break looking at cars on his phone.

* * *

Not a museum. That was all that Ethan knew about what lay ahead this evening. He'd had ideas himself, of course, all very traditional typical ideas which would have pleased any other woman he'd ever taken on a date. In particular, there was a new seafood restaurant in town which Cal had already been to twice and raved about each time. Taking advice from his older brother almost always spelled trouble, but he didn't think much could happen over scallops and lobster.

The trouble was that he didn't think it was the sort of thing Tiffany would enjoy. It was traditional and refined and romantic, and he somehow couldn't quite see her sat across a table from him. Her way was much more energetic and dramatic and alive. He'd have to think harder.

By the time he'd changed out of his scrubs into the jumper and jeans he'd pulled on this morning, he had no further ideas. All he could hope was that she'd have given it some thought herself and that whatever she'd come up with wouldn't be too insane.

She was late, unsurprisingly, and Ethan took the time to check his messages. Not that he had many anymore, not since his mother had passed away last year. From time to time, Claire, his stepmother, would send him the odd message, her attempt to prevent him spiralling away from the family in the way that Cal was always threatening to. His father was like him, preferring face-to-face conversations in place of tapped out texts and voicemails. All Ethan had to check today was spam from his mobile provider and his weekly bank balance update, which he wished he hadn't read.

Just as he was putting his phone away and wondering if he'd heard Tiffany's very clear instructions incorrectly, he found himself bowled over by six foot of energy.

'Sorry!' his assailant apologised as naturally as breathing, even clasping Ethan's shoulders in an attempt to right the wrong, before they actually looked at each other and Max almost dropped him in his surprise.

'…Sorry,' the porter said again, removing his hands very deliberately and forcing them into his pockets. Then, dropping his eyes to the ground, he headed away, as if even breathing the same air as Ethan was wrong somehow.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something, to call Max back. He'd always quite liked the porter, considered him a good colleague if not quite a friend. They'd been on nights out together and Ethan even thought he'd likely stood Max a round or two after work. There was no reason for them to be behaving like this. Except Fran, he thought silently, looking as the other man skulked away across the car park. And maybe that was everything.

Anyway, there was no more time to deliberate over it now, as Tiffany was standing in front of him, cigarette in hand as she regarded him silently.

'So. What are we doing?' she asked, exhaling smoke over her shoulder.

He was silent for a second, wondering if anything would spring into his mind at the last second, rescuing from being the boring one, the safe one, the one that just didn't fit with Tiffany Gray.

'Cause we could check out this gig I heard about at a bar in town.'

A gig. That sounded _cool_. Ethan wasn't sure if he was _cool_ , at least not on the same level as Tiffany, and the bar they found themselves outside didn't allay his concerns. Glancing around, he saw nobody who looked remotely close to him in age, style or wage bracket, and then felt awful for judging anybody based on any of those things.

In contrast, Tiffany waited impatiently in the queue, looking as if she'd been there forever in ripped jeans and stiletto boots and a leather jacket which she was shivering within. Finishing her cigarette, she rolled her eyes.

'Come on, let's see if we can get inside,' she said decisively, breaking free of the queue and marching past it.

'But we're… in a queue?' Ethan protested weakly, pulling apologetic faces at all the people they passed. By the time he'd caught up with her, she had a satisfied smile back on her face and the bouncer was waving them inside.

'What did you say to him?' Ethan asked as they stepped inside the bar, walking down the steps into the basement. He risked a glance over his shoulder at the bouncer, who was still watching Tiffany go, reminding Ethan far too much of his brother.

'Nothing special.' Tiffany shrugged, and that was the end of the conversation for her, as she turned her attention to him. 'Come on, Granddad, loosen up a bit,' she instructed him, as she tugged on his shirt to get it out of his trousers. 'You might want to lose the sweater.'

He did; in contrast to the chilly March evening, the bar was warm and stuffy, filled with bodies. Even so, he couldn't help dwelling on that nickname: it wasn't one he'd have chosen. He didn't think it had been selected in malice, and she certainly seemed cheerful enough when she said it. It just wasn't flattering, and he wondered what that said about how she saw him. Stuffy, old, past it. He had no idea that seven years was such a large gap.

So he entered into it. He downed shots and pushed his way to the front of what he assumed was a mosh pit, having never been in one before. He felt his inhibitions lower as he danced, sang, laughed with Tiffany as he couldn't remember doing for a really long time. By the time they crashed into his flat that night, keys skittering across the floor alongside her bag, her shoes, his belt, their coats, he felt a million miles away from the boring old duffer he'd been concerned about being only hours before.

As they tumbled onto his bed, he caught a glimpse of them in the mirror. It was a sight he'd seen many times before and he recognised it immediately. It wasn't him in the mirror.

It was Cal.

* * *

 ** _Next time: People on the Edge of the Night_**

 _'So, how goes bring-a-boyfriend-to-work-day?' Max asked, sidling up to Tiffany, grin spread wide over his whole face because he hadn't been able to take Ethan's ride on the ambulance seriously ever since he'd heard about it. He was just about getting his head around the two of them as a couple outside of work, thinking that maybe they weren't complete polar opposites, but seeing Ethan in a high-vis jacket and coming off an ambulance was plain weird._

 _Tiffany's reaction suggested that it wasn't entirely plain sailing as far as she was concerned either. Never one to address the main issue when a side one would do, she opted for, 'It's a night shift.'_

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'Blank Space' by Taylor Swift (I borrow a lot from her 1989 album because that was basically my winter-listening this year)


	16. People on the Edge of the Night

**Hope you're still enjoying this. If you're wondering what's happened to Fran, she's still there and her storyline comes back to the forefront again soon. This has definitely taught me how tough plotting something like Casualty must be (and I'm only really dealing with about seven characters!)**

 **A night shift today - because what's Casualty without a night shift?**

* * *

 _Love's such an old-fashioned word, and love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves._

April in Holby. Even for Ethan, somebody born and raised on all the eccentricities English weather had to offer, this never-ending winter was too much. The brief spell of sunshine in mid-March had given way to lashing rain and howling gales in Holy Week. He was more than done with this, so Tiffany had his sympathy as she shivered inside her many layers and snuggled up to the ambulance radiator as much as she could.

'We're going to drain the battery,' Iain remarked, watching his partner's attempts to climb inside the heating system.

'I just don't get it,' she said for at least the third time since the shift had begun an hour ago. 'Why don't you have proper seasons? Why this constant crap? You know, this is probably why Sylvia Plath topped herself. It wasn't her cruel English husband, it was the cruel English weather.'

Ethan stifled a smile as he sipped his coffee. 'You know she'd attempted suicide before she even met Ted Hughes?'

Tiffany shrugged it off as only she could. That she would drop such literary references into conversation was no longer as much of a surprise as it would have been a few months earlier. In fact, it was something Ethan was beginning to expect.

What he hadn't expected was quite how slowly this shift would be creeping by. The opportunity to shadow the ambulance team on a night shift had been a rare one, and he'd immediately grabbed it. A chance to see what medicine was like out there in the world, without the security of Ash or Connie to pick up the pieces, was just what he needed. Getting to spend a shift with Tiffany was a secondary incentive, but an incentive nonetheless.

They'd received their first call out three minutes after clocking on. A man complaining of chest pains had prompted Iain to flick the siren on and Ethan was a little embarrassed to admit to his excitement as they'd hurtled through the night streets of Holby. It was an excitement that was short lived; the man was now sitting contentedly watching his soaps, the pain dispelled in one enormous belch. Ethan had been almost incandescent with rage when they got back into the ambulance, and only became more so when Tiffany and Iain seemed entirely at ease with the situation.

'But that was a complete waste of time.'

'It happens.' Iain shrugged. 'More often than you'd think. I wouldn't let it bother you.'

But bother Ethan it did. As the shift rolled on and he saw the sorts of cases that their time could be better spent on, he grew more and more irritated with that first call-out. He saw people at work, of course, people who didn't need to be in hospital, but this was something else. It made him wonder whether the NHS wasn't that bit too available.

Now they were sitting outside town, parked strategically in case anything kicked off in the city centre following the mid-week football match.

'Can't think why anybody would want to be watching soccer in this,' Tiffany muttered, to much shushing from Iain as he tried to follow the match on the radio. Ignoring him, deliberately speaking more loudly, she said, 'For real.'

'Is it normally this slow?' Ethan asked eventually, as Iain gave up on the terrible reception and switched the radio off.

'I didn't have you down as an adrenalin junkie,' Iain commented.

'I'm not.' He wasn't. That had always been Cal's domain. It was always Cal who did the stupid, the reckless, the brave and the ridiculous. Two action heroes in one family would have been far too much. But, 'I always assumed more happened.'

'Nothing happening is usually a good thing,' Iain pointed out.

'According to Dixie,' Tiffany followed up, and the two of them shared a grin.

'But seriously,' Iain recovered his argument. 'Quiet is good.'

Ethan supposed that was no different from working in the ED. Busy nights were exciting in their own way, but there was always a high level of stress as you tried to juggle everything, providing the highest service possible to everyone who came through the door. Sooner or later, you'd get something wrong: it was just the law of averages. Quieter shifts might feel longer, but for Ethan, there was satisfaction in being able to do things more slowly, more methodically, actually being able to investigate patients' complaints, explain it to them properly, ensure they understood what they were being told – that was the kind of shift he liked. He knew he was in a minority with that – Cal liked the high drama, the split second decisions, whilst Fran wanted, needed, constant distractions. That was a good thing though, and Holby ED had enough to keep all three of them occupied.

Somehow he doubted Iain and Tiffany thought like he did though, which made their claim that this evening was a good thing seem even more improbable.

'So what do you do to pass the time?'

'We talk.'

'He moans.' Tiffany tilted her cup towards Iain.

'She bitches.'

'He listens to his lame-ass soccer team.'

'If she lets me hear my own thoughts for five seconds.'

Friendly. That was the word which sprang into Ethan's mind as the paramedics continued trading insults. There was an overwhelming sense of friendship between the two of them which momentarily made him feel as though he'd intruded, which seemed ridiculous given that she was his-

The radio crackled into life and relieved him of finding a name for whatever it was he and Tiffany were doing.

'This is control. Report of an RTC on the ring-road, one vehicle involved, two possible casualties. Anyone free to respond?'

'Control, this is three-seven-four receiving. Free and able to respond.' Tiffany relayed the specific directions to Iain as they pulled out from the layby and he flicked on the lights. Again Ethan felt that thrill surge through him and hung on tight.

This shout was an altogether different affair from the man with indigestion. Here, the police had already closed the inside lane of the ring-road, coneing off the area where the silver hatchback had crashed into a street sign. Traffic was backing up around it, moving over grudgingly to let the ambulance through.

'Damaging the street furniture again,' Iain remarked drily as they came to a halt. 'Fetch a spinal board, Tiff, I'll see what the damage is.' Then, as if he'd only just remembered Ethan, he added, 'Help Tiff with the bag.'

There was an irony here, Ethan thought, as he took the items from Tiffany. Here he was, years of medical school behind him, and he was carrying bags. On paper, he was the most qualified, with strings of letters after his name. Out here, all of that experience counted for almost nothing when compared with Iain and Tiffany's almost instinctual-reactions. He wasn't really designed for this real-world thing; it was a feeling he'd had for much of his life.

Following directions was a thing he could do though, and he could carry bags pretty damn well. For the next twenty minutes, he handed over to the professionals, doing as Iain and Tiffany asked without getting in the way. The driver of the car was less obliging, walking wounded but more of a bother than the conscious passenger, especially when he tried to help. Finally Ethan caught onto Iain's pained glances in his direction and did his best to steer the man away from the car and towards the ambulance.

'Is Gina going to be okay?' The man asked for perhaps the tenth time since they'd arrived on the scene.

'The paramedics are doing their best for her.' This at least was within Ethan's experience, if a little more raw. 'Let's take a look at those cuts,' he suggested, surveying man's face. 'They look like pretty minor lacerations. What's your name?'

'Mark.' The man reluctantly sat down on the edge of the ambulance, craning his neck to see where Iain and Tiffany were still working on his companion in the car. 'What's taking them so long?'

'They're making sure it's safe to take her out of the car. Can you stare straight into this torch for me please?'

Mark obliged, proving he was concussion free, before turning back to the car. 'We were nearly home,' he said in the confused tone of the recently injured. 'We only live about five minutes away.'

Ethan didn't comment.

'She's conscious, right, that's a good sign?'

'It's a positive.' In as much as she could tell them where she was hurting. 'I'm sure they'll have her out soon.'

'So what are you, then?' Mark asked. 'Training on the job?'

Ethan smiled. 'I'm shadowing them. I'm an ED registrar.'

'A doctor?' Mark almost jumped up. 'You should be helping Gina, not me!'

'This… isn't really my speciality,' Ethan admitted, reminded again of how out of his depth he was out at the coalface. It was the first time he'd really missed the hospital all evening. His relief when Tiffany and Iain returned with Gina on the trolley and they pulled away from the crash site was only partially for the casualties; even if only for a little while, he was looking forward to going home.

* * *

'And rotate it for me,' Cal murmured, watching as the woman on the bed followed his directions to the letter, without a single wince. 'Any pain?' A shake of the head prompted his decision. 'The good news is that it's highly unlikely your wrist is broken.'

'And the bad news?' She raised her eyebrows. He could see a dozen other scenarios flashing through her brain, at least half of which would involve amputation of her arm below the elbow. He'd seen her type before; only a special kind of person would choose to spend a Tuesday evening waiting in reception with what she herself had described as 'an aching wrist'.

'The bad news is that there isn't much we can for you.' He scribbled something on her notes, refraining from labelling her a complete waste of time.

'Aren't you even going to put a bandage on it?' The incredulity in her voice was clear. She was probably one of those kids who had always felt better with a plaster over a cut so she couldn't see the blood. Her wrist didn't even have a bruise or any visible mark upon it.

'It doesn't need one.'

'You're not going to give me _anything_?'

'I can recommend some anti-inflammatories. Ibuprofen is widely available over the counter. Beyond that…' Cal shrugged. 'There really is nothing more we can do. If there's nothing else, I'm happy to discharge you.'

She was altogether less happy for him to do that, but he didn't give her a chance to argue before he'd signed her off and moved on.

'As if we're not busy enough tonight,' he muttered. So far this evening he'd been stuck in cubicles treating people who had no place being in an ED at all, and certainly not at this time of night. He wondered if TV was really so bad on a Tuesday to make this seem like a more interesting option.

'Doctor Knight.' Lily stopped him in his grumblings. 'Could you check this x-ray for me?'

As if the night wasn't sucking completely, he was currently the most senior doctor on the ward. Ash was ostensibly on call, but there had been nothing major enough to warrant disturbing him so far. Ordinarily Cal enjoyed being in charge, temporary king in his own little world. Tonight was different. With Ethan out with the ambulance crew and Fran well below par, he was finding a lot falling onto his shoulders. That wasn't quite so much fun.

He gave Lily's x-ray a glance over, agreeing with her diagnosis and moving on. He had to admit that she'd been pulling more than her weight so far this evening, and if he was any kind of leader, he'd tell her so. She likely wouldn't believe him, though, and he had bigger things to sort. Namely: his little sister.

Logically, he knew there were reasons for why Fran was struggling this evening. Night shifts sucked, particularly the first one for a while. Your body clock was thrown, expecting to be winding down at ten at night and instead having to find the energy reserves to deal with time-wasters like his last patient. This one had so far been especially bad, filled with small-scale, uninteresting cases which he knew his sister would find it hard to get enthused about. Added onto all of that, she was seven months pregnant, and if Cal remembered correctly from his gynae rotation, she could be carrying an extra twenty pounds right now. Cal was struggling to lift much more than twelve pounds at the gym, and that was for the very briefest of brief seconds. Lugging around that weight all of the time would be enough to put anybody off of their game. Fran certainly seemed thoroughly uncomfortable.

It was three patients later before he had a chance to speak to her though, an occurrence of chance more than design. Stopping to check the time on his way from cubicles back through to reception, he found his sister sitting down, a look of relief momentarily passing across her face when she thought nobody was looking.

'Hey sis,' he said, and instantly the shutters came up and she picked up the notes at hand, glasses firmly shoved back up her nose, ponytail tossed over her shoulder. It was a series of gestures which said he'd get nowhere with her. Instead, he picked up the notes. 'What have we got?'

'Nothing I can't handle.' She took them back without blinking.

Trying not to lose his patience, Cal said, 'Fran…'

She waited approximately half a second before flashing him an irritated look. 'Cal, I'm busy, what is it?'

'Should you take a break?' Before she could protest, he said, 'I'm just thinking, it's a long shift and what with your…'

'If you say condition, I will punch you.' Jaw resolutely set, she turned back to her work. 'I'm fine.'

Cal opened his mouth to say something more, though he wasn't sure what. He wished Ethan was here.

'Cal?' Charlie came through the doors. 'We've got an RTC on its way in. Two casualties, one with a possible fractured spine. ETA ten minutes. Ethan's on it.'

'Right. Thanks.' Cal nodded. He'd never known his wishes could be granted so easily.

As usual, the reality of his brother was quite different from his thoughts. Ethan's fussing over the patient pushed all of Cal's buttons in under one minute.

'Yeah, alright, Ethan. What about your guy?' He gestured towards where Lofty was pushing the wheelchair into cubicles.

'Minor cuts and bruises.' Ethan shrugged, eyes still fixed upon the girl on the trolley as Iain and Tiffany transferred her.

'Do you want to go and tell Fran that?'

Ethan jerked himself back into the room. 'Oh. Right. Yeah. Is that…?' He nodded. 'Sure.'

Cal hesitated, wondering if he should voice his concerns about their sister, share his worries. For so long, they'd both been ignoring her, choosing to believe she had it all under control. At least, Cal had. He expected Ethan had been quietly worrying all by himself, because that was what Ethan did. It might actually be nice to have something in common.

But that wasn't how they worked, so Cal went back to treating his patient and Ethan went to hand his over properly.

* * *

'So, how goes bring-a-boyfriend-to-work-day?' Max asked, sidling up to Tiffany, grin spread wide over his whole face because he hadn't been able to take Ethan's ride on the ambulance seriously ever since he'd heard about it. He was just about getting his head around the two of them as a couple outside of work, thinking that maybe they weren't complete polar opposites, but seeing Ethan in a high-vis jacket and coming off an ambulance was plain weird.

Tiffany's reaction suggested that it wasn't entirely plain sailing as far as she was concerned either. Never one to address the main issue when a side one would do, she opted for, 'It's a night shift.'

And didn't Max know it. He'd been kept busy ferrying patients up and down from x-ray over the past few hours, missing at least two of his self-scheduled cigarette breaks. Evenings had always been the time he came alive, mornings usually a massive struggle. At least, that is, until he became a porter; nights were altogether more fun when fuelled by alcohol and loud music.

Then, in response to his initial question, she said, 'He's fine. It's just a bit…' She left that unfinished.

'What she means is,' Iain said, joining the two of them round the side of the ambulance, 'she's finding it hard to keep her hands off of me with the old man watching.'

'Oh God, yeah!' Tiffany rolled her eyes. 'That's exactly how we usually roll. In your dreams.'

'If any of my dreams involve you, it's you actually helping me prep the ambulance,' Iain retorted. 'Maybe you do need to spend a day with Dixie to whip you back into shape.'

'Oh God! Alright, I'll do it!' Tiffany exclaimed, dropping her cigarette to the ground and stropping onto the ambulance. 'Slave driver.'

'And really?' Max asked as soon as she was out of earshot.

Iain shrugged. 'It seems to be going okay. Ethan's nice. Tiff's…'

There it was, that unfinished sentence that Max had tried himself to fill in. Tiffany was lovely: she was funny and sarcastic and filled a pair of jeans better than just about any other woman Max had ever come across. She was a catch in just about every sense of the word, and Ethan was one of the more deserving members of the male species; certainly, Max would trust the doctor a hell of a lot more than he trusted himself on a daily basis, especially given his recent form. It was just he kept coming back to what he'd said about the paramedic to Robyn: _she's terrifying_. He still held by that statement, even having shared just about every cigarette break for the past month with Tiffany. Looked at from that perspective, Ethan's _nice_ had no substance whatsoever.

Max wasn't sure why he was taking such an interest in his colleagues' love-lives.

'Is Dixie really suggesting she partners up with Tiffany?'

Iain glanced over his shoulder before confiding, 'No, but it does the trick where Tiff's concerned.'

Max smiled. 'Should Ethan be learning a few of these tricks?'

'Man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.' Iain shrugged. Then came the familiar crackle of the radio and they heard Tiffany responding. 'No rest for the wicked. Could you send Ethan on out?'

Max had no chance to protest as Iain bounded towards the cab of the vehicle. He'd barely spoken to Ethan in the months since the big revelation, but this was possibly life and death: he could probably manage that.

* * *

Life and death happened every day in the ED, often side by side. Ethan had spent days lurching from one to another, the highs always sitting alongside the lows. It was the great leveller.

Life and death didn't look like this in the ED. There, it seemed cleaner, sectioned off in a way from everything outside of the hospital. It was almost unreal, Ethan realised now. This was very different.

The callout was from an hysterical man who had found his girlfriend in the bathroom. Space was tight and Iain was half in the bath with the woman as he tried to stem the bleeding using anything to hand: towels, flannels, a ratty dressing gown. Tiffany was already letting the water out, placing a blanket around the woman, checking her vital signs, as the boyfriend continued to flounder beside them. And Ethan stood there, shocked numb by the scene in front of him. This was visceral and grotesque and so real that he didn't know that he was equipped for this. Blood was one thing; blood as it soaked into towels streaked with the remnants of make-up was something else altogether.

'Ethan, could you continue to apply pressure here while we get her out?' Iain asked, and like that, Ethan was back in the zone, doing as he was told, being useful and trying his best. It was what he was good at.

What Tiffany was good at was people. Ethan had noticed it before, the way she was able to talk endlessly about nothing to anybody, but tonight had proven it. She'd been calm and soothing in every situation, filling uncomfortable silences with empty kindnesses and seeming as if she had every situation under control.

Now, as Ethan helped Iain to carry the woman from the house, she fell into step alongside the boyfriend and filled him in on what they were doing.

'Mike, we're going to take Jade into Holby ED. You're welcome to ride along with us.'

The man nodded vaguely, never taking his eyes off of his girlfriend. 'She's going to be okay, though, yeah? I mean, she's not going to…' He tailed off, the word unutterable.

'We'll get her there as soon as we can,' Tiffany promised, a light hand on his shoulder as she guided him after Ethan and Iain into the van. 'You alright, Iain?'

'Yeah, let's get going.' Iain nodded.

And there they went again, the blaring sirens, the flashing lights. A dozen times Ethan thought of things to say to the man sitting beside him, before dismissing them as trite, insensitive, ridiculous. So they sat taciturnly until they pulled up outside the ED.

'Jade Adams, twenty-six, found with lacerations to her arms in the bath approximately forty minutes ago.' Iain rattled off the explanations as they pulled the trolley down off of the ambulance. 'Unconscious on arrival.'

'Let's get her straight through to resus,' Fran directed them, and for the second time that night Ethan found himself blinking when it came to his sister. She looked _exhausted_ , almost ill with tiredness. At seven months pregnant, even the way she walked had changed, a million miles away from the fitness freak he'd always called his sister. Tonight she looked weary, as if she'd rather be anywhere else than on a night shift. Surely she could take her maternity leave now, put her feet up, give herself a break for once in her life? As her brother, Ethan knew he should say something and let her know that it was okay to need that, okay to be less than amazing.

Yet there she went, giving orders and making decisions without a single consideration of her condition. With their handover complete, Ethan found himself surplus to requirements and he drifted back out to reception alongside Iain and Tiffany. This rudderless existence didn't suit him and he excused himself to get a coffee, albeit from the machine ('No wimping out now and going for a sit down,' Iain joked.) – the machine where he bumped into Mike.

Calmer now, less hysterical and wound up, he was tapping out a text on his phone whilst he waited for his coffee. Ethan now looked at what he was wearing, taking in the threadbare tracksuit bottoms matched with black dress shoes. These were the clothes of a man who had been dragged from his home in the middle of the night, an entirely unexpected interruption in his ordinary life. At least they'd all been prepared for a night shift.

'Sorry,' he said now, looking up from his phone to Ethan. 'I know, I'm probably not supposed to use this here.'

'Technically, no.'

He pocketed it. 'I just wanted to let my girlfriend know I was staying here for a bit.'

Ethan couldn't help it. 'Your… girlfriend? But I thought…' He gestured vaguely over his shoulder, thinking of the woman lying in resus, blood-stained bandages everywhere.

'Jade's my ex. We split up… what, five months ago?' Mike shook his head, as if in disbelief that such a time had gone by.

'But you were at her house tonight?'

'She kept calling, leaving messages. She… hasn't dealt with it very well.'

Ethan refrained from saying what he thought: _in comparison with you_. 'Has she done anything like this before?'

'Not as extreme. She's always been dramatic, always a bit… on the edge.' He shrugged. 'It's part of the reason we split up. She's very… intense.'

Ethan didn't know why that struck such a chord with him. 'Are you going to stay around? For Jade?'

'I can stay a bit longer. I mean, we were together three years, I wouldn't want anything to happen to her. When I found her there tonight…' He shook his head.

'Has she got any friends or family we should be calling?'

'There's her dad, but he lives in Madeira. Jade's never really been… popular, she's always been sort of on the edge of things.' He shrugged again. 'Sorry, I wish I could help. I can stay until she comes round. I mean, she _is_ going to be okay, right?'

Weighing his words carefully, Ethan said, 'The cuts were deep but she hadn't hit any of the major arteries. She should regain consciousness shortly.' It was on the tip of his tongue to say more, state that somebody who would take a razor to their wrists was very far from okay and wouldn't be for the foreseeable future. He thought that would have been obvious. She would need help and further treatment and a whole support network, and that started here, now, tonight…

Then he remembered who he was talking to: Jade wasn't his problem. It just wasn't clear whose problem she was.

Reassured, Mike nodded. 'That's good. Like I said, I still… well, I'm always going to _care_ what happens to her.'

Ethan nodded: _just not enough for Jade_. Getting a coffee, he headed back out to the ambulance, the night settling oppressively onto his shoulders.

* * *

Fran checked her appearance in the mirror one more time, wondering if the blusher she'd applied would look as clownish to other people. Her skin had turned paler and paler as the shift had dragged on until she could stand it no longer and escaped to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, this was the best she could manage. It wasn't good.

Taking advantage of the rare moment of solitude in a busy ED ward, she let out a breath she'd been holding in all night. When patients came into the hospital, they were asked to identify what areas of their body hurt. Right now, Fran felt it would be simpler and quicker to itemise what didn't. She'd never appreciated before what being seven months pregnant would be like. All of the books and websites and TV programmes showed glowing mothers-to-be with perfect skin and hair and nails and a huge grin upon their face. There were brief mentions of aching backs and tiredness, but nothing that Fran recognised as tallying with her own experience. Nothing could compare to the dragging exhaustion in every bone of her body and the backache so severe she felt physically sick. This was the worst she'd ever felt during a shift and there were still two hours to go. For the briefest moment, she considered giving up.

Then the door banged open and she locked eyes with Rita in the mirror and she felt her usual resolve surge back through her body.

Apparently not quite quickly enough though, as Rita said, without any hesitation, 'Francesca, are you okay?'

Fran didn't know what surprised her more: the use of her actual name or the genuine concern in the nurse's voice. They'd never really seen eye to eye, and Fran suspected she was second only to Mrs Beauchamp herself on Rita's hitlist. That didn't really bother her; there was worse company to be in. She didn't need anybody's sympathy, anyway, so she ignored the question.

'Do you need me?'

Rita blinked. 'Well… there is a patient… but if you need a break-' she said, before Fran cut in.

'I'm fine. I'll go and see them now.'

And fine she was, all through treating that patient and the next and the next. She was always fine when she was doing her job. It was what she was supposed to do, the only thing she'd ever really wanted. When she was doing it, she felt in control again, something she hadn't been feeling much of in recent weeks. As her body had changed, as this thing inside of her had begun exerting its own pressures and movements, she'd found it increasingly more difficult to see all of this as belonging to her life in anyway. This wasn't the life she'd had planned out. There were only a few more weeks to go until she could reclaim her life. Most of the time, she could hardly wait.

It was just the rest of the time she had to convince herself.

* * *

Louise was in a bad mood. It was so often true that Max tended to assume she was unless he was told otherwise, but it was particularly noticeable this evening. Night shifts didn't agree with many people, but she made her dislike of them clearly known, through loudly smacking down patients' notes to even sharper retorts than usual. Ordinarily, Max might have walked on by and left her to it. Even now he thought twice. Then, because he was feeling charitable, because his interaction with Ethan earlier had gone without any fur flying, because he was at a loose end, he stopped and asked if he could help.

'Are you a doctor?' Louise retorted.

'Erm, no.'

'Are you a nurse?'

Seeing where it was going, Max gave a wry smile. 'No, but-'

'Then how exactly are you going to help?' The receptionist shook her head in despair. 'I've got a backlog of over an hour, one of the machines is out up on x-ray and Doctor Hardy looks like she might be about to drop that sprog any second.'

After a brief moment of horror, Max remembered Louise's penchant for exaggeration. Francesca did look uncomfortable this evening, and she did seem to have suddenly swollen in size in the past few days. Even he'd noticed that and he'd tried his best not to. She also looked thoroughly unhappy with herself. That didn't necessarily equate to being in labour though, which had to be a good thing; Max's rudimentary understanding of pregnancy told him that there was still some time to go before she should ideally be having that baby.

Louise's casual throwaway follow up line also interrupted his thinking before he could get too bogged down. 'Unless you can do something about Molly, you're wasting my time.' She gestured towards the waiting area.

Max looked. And he felt his heart plummet. There were so many patients like Molly, those who arrived time after time, taking nobody's advice so everybody knew they would be here again. But none of them had quite such a hold over him as Molly did.

'How long has she been here?'

'About an hour. She's fallen over and cut herself. Stinks of gin.' Louise gave the woman a half-withering, half-pitying look. 'She'll only speak to Tess or Zoe, and Tess is busy and Zoe is… well… She shrugged. 'I have explained several times.'

Molly had meant so much to Zoe. Max remembered the doctor's agonised face on her last day here. She thought she'd let the alcoholic down, thought she would never be enough to save people like her and have a life herself. She was probably right. Max didn't know why he still felt he owed Zoe this.

'Shall I have a go?'

Louise looked about to throw him a disdainful comment when the telephone rang. She turned her back on him and Max took that as a green light.

Louise's description of Molly was spot on, he thought, as he sat down next to her in the vacant seat; people were choosing to stand rather than be near her. He briefly wondered what that was like, how lonely it must be, and then he didn't have much time to think anymore as Molly completely took over.

'What do you want?' she slurred, glowering at him.

'We've met before? I'm Max?' He didn't know why he was phrasing it as a question, as if he wasn't sure. She certainly didn't seem to remember him, his presence having been entirely eclipsed by Zoe Hanna. He supposed that was understandable. Anyway, whether she remembered him or not wasn't the point. 'You've cut yourself.' He gestured towards the grubby makeshift bandage she'd given herself.

'I want to see Zoe.'

There was the last eight months in one sentence. After all this time, it hurt more than he expected to have to say, 'Zoe's not here.'

'When is she coming back? I can wait.'

'The thing is she…' Max tailed off, wondering how he could say this. 'She doesn't really work here anymore.' Something he knew Louise would have found easier to tell Molly. This was either denial or genuine memory loss.

'Since when?'

'For a while.' Then, before Molly could say anything else, he added, 'We've got other doctors though, really good doctors. Why don't you see one of them?'

Molly gave a snort of disgust. 'What, Queen Bee or Princess Snooty? No thank you. And as for Doctor Romeo….'

Max supressed a smile, surprised at how accurately she'd nailed each of the doctors. He expected Lily Chao would receive an equally as damning nickname if he suggested her. The truth was that there was nobody quite like Zoe Hanna left in the ED, somebody who was efficient but caring, dedicated but fun. Nobody had filled her place.

He looked at the cut again, assessed the damage against the limited first aid knowledge he had, tried to think outside of the box. _Like Zoe would_ , he silently added, before saying, 'How about if I get Robyn to have a look at that cut for you? Then, if we need to, we can ask a doctor.'

'I want to see Zoe.'

'I know.' If anybody knew, he did. 'You really need to get that looked at though. Look, wait here and I'll get Robyn to take a look. Just… stay here.'

It felt like a mercy mission, something he had to do or burst. Each second that ticked by in the search for Robyn felt like an eternity. He didn't even bother with a preamble when he found her, in the middle of applying a dressing.

'Are you free?'

'Do I look it?' Robyn threw him a brief glare before turning back to the patient. 'Sorry.'

'I've got a patient I need you to see.'

'Since when do _you_ have patients?'

A valid point which he ignored. 'She's cut her hand.'

'So get her to book in like everybody else.'

'It's Molly Drover.' Not a flicker from Robyn. 'You remember Molly?'

'Yes, I remember Molly.' Robyn shrugged. 'Since when did she get a fast pass?' Then, as Max still hovered nearby, she said, 'I'm sort of busy, Max. Try Lofty.'

So began another desperate hunt. Admittedly their flat-mate looked less tied up than Robyn had, making Max wonder why he'd bypassed him before. It took minimal effort to drag Lofty out into reception – where Molly's seat was empty.

'Where's Molly gone?'

Louise shrugged. 'I don't know. I don't keep tabs on every patient. Try the pub.'

He filed away the receptionist's attitude for the time being, having too much else to deal with. A cursory search of the immediate area showed no signs of Molly and he despondently returned to a bemused Lofty.

'So… there's no patient?'

'No, there's no patient,' Max repeated. 'There's. No. Patient.' Suddenly he needed to get out of there, away from the patients and staff and everybody else in the whole damn place. Everybody who wasn't Zoe Hanna. He barely heard Lofty's concerned words as he slammed out of the door and outside, where the night was still and he could breathe again. For the first time, he found himself hoping that Tiffany wasn't around, that he could have this moment on his own. He needed it.

It took three cigarettes for him to shake off the feeling that he'd let somebody down. He didn't know who it was: Molly or Zoe or… someone else. He didn't think it necessarily mattered. All that mattered was that he didn't do it again. There was only an hour left of his shift. He could do that.

* * *

The night was almost over. Every inch of Ethan's body ached for bed and yet his mind was still turning over and over. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so wired at the end of a shift. It could have been the ambulance, or the variety of places he'd been, or just the things he'd seen, but sleep seemed a million miles away this morning.

Since dropping Jade off, they'd been on three more shouts, each one as miserable as the one before. Nobody had died, that much was true, and something Ethan had to keep reminding himself. Indeed, things had turned out well for the people involved, or at least much better than they might have expected when they had summoned an ambulance. Medically, it had been a good night.

It was the other stuff bothering Ethan as he got changed at the end of his shift. The people like their first call out, using the ambulance service as a glorified chemist. Or like their last call out, a man who had been awake all night talking himself into being ill. Or Jade, a lonely isolated woman who had seen only way to make herself heard. All of these people, so alone. It was a feeling he found hard to shake even as he left work.

Tiffany was sitting on a bench in the Peace Garden. She wasn't exactly waiting for him; Ethan didn't think he could use that phrase. She wasn't going anywhere else though, smoking her cigarette leisurely as yet more people piled into the hospital, content in the knowledge that her duty was over for another night. He didn't know how she'd wound down again so quickly, but he wanted in on that, so he joined her.

'You want one?' she offered her cigarette packet to him, and for a moment, just one tiny moment, Ethan considered taking one. It had always worked for Cal, after all. Then he got a grip on himself and shook his head.

'So you're not gonna be requesting a transfer then?'

He frowned.

Smiling, Tiffany elaborated: 'It didn't seem like your cup of tea.' She said the last in a faux-English accent that he hoped wasn't supposed to be an impression of him because it sounded ridiculous.

Loathe to quite admit how bad he'd found it, Ethan tried a different approach. 'Why is it you like it so much?'

It seemed like a question she'd dodged, as she took several further drags on her cigarette, tilting her head up to look at the dying moments of the night, the stars beginning to fade as the sun came up. Ethan supposed that was reasonable: he didn't know how he'd answer that question either.

'You know the next nearest star to Earth after the sun is four-point-two light-years away?'

Ethan knew. He collected facts like that like sweets. He hadn't expected Tiffany to know something like that though, and he looked at her again, wondering how much more was hidden beneath the surface. Two months they'd been doing whatever this was – and some days he really had no idea what it was – and yet he was still unsure who she really was. That was both terrifying and exhilarating, and Ethan wasn't sure which was winning out at the moment.

'You reckon if I wore your glasses I'd be able to see stuff like that?' The question took him by surprise, so that when she reached out and took his glasses from his face, he was only marginally more startled. His eyesight was always worse in the dark and so he found everything suddenly blurred, things nothing more than vague shapes in the gloom. Even Tiffany, so close to him, became more of a presence than anything else, yet somehow he had a suspicion the glasses suited her.

'I doubt it,' he answered her finally.

'Then what is the point?' she retorted, but sounded pretty contented, continuing to gaze up at the sky. Then, 'Do you remember The Lion King?'

'The film?'

'Or the musical. The musical's awesome. But yeah.'

'Yes, I remember The Lion King.' He wondered where this was going.

'You remember what they said about the stars in that?'

Ethan tried. It was a film he'd tried hard not to be into as a kid, being on the very upper end of the intended age bracket. Liking animated animals was just about acceptable for a boy of his age, but definitely not something Cal was into, and back then, Cal had seemed like somebody he should emulate. Fran had been able to embrace the film with both arms, completely and unashamedly, and Ethan still remembered the themed stationary and lunch box which had been showered upon his sister, their father simply grateful she wasn't a princesses and unicorns kind of girl. He hadn't been exactly jealous, but he had developed a pre-teen disdain for the film, making it hard to tap into now.

Tiffany relieved him of having to. 'They said they were the great kings of the past looking down on you.'

'More Disney lies,' Ethan joked, before regretting it. It was the sort of comment he'd made at ten years old and it had gone down badly then.

'But think about it,' Tiffany said after a pause. 'Way out there… there's gotta be more, right? All of those stars… there's gotta to be something else.'

'I suppose.'

'And we're just these little tiny beings on this tiny planet in amongst all of… all of that!' She threw her arms out dramatically to illustrate her point. 'We're so pointless.' She paused and added more quietly. 'That's why I do this. For those people, like Jade, like… everyone who feels like that. Because nobody should be alone.'

Ethan tried to digest that, tried to understand how such a deep understanding had come from somebody who had spent ninety per cent of the night bitching about the weather. He didn't know where she'd dug this out from. Because that was how he felt, how they all felt, he expected. They did this job for those people who had no one else, or at least no one else who could help them right then. It was a no-brainer.

So preoccupied was he with those thoughts that he didn't notice she'd slipped her hand into his until she gave a small tug and stood up. 'You staying here all day?'

He got to his feet beside her. 'No, I…'

She giggled. 'Oh yeah. You want these back?' She slid the glasses back onto his face. 'You wanna come back to mine?'

He wasn't aware of having said yes or no, merely that his feet started to move. There were worse places he could think of, and being by himself didn't appeal. He deserved to afford himself the same care they'd offered everybody else that night: he didn't deserve to be alone.

* * *

 _ **Next time: When Doves Cry**_

 _To say Fran looked relieved to see Ash and Cal was an understatement. Her words tripped over each other in her haste to share her concern._

 _'I've paged obs and gynae several times,' she explained as Ash looked through Jen Oakley's notes. 'The scan shows the baby is still moving, if a bit sluggishly. We've detected a heartbeat but the baby seems to be in distress. I'd move her upstairs but…' A shrug which seemed helpless confirmed it for Cal: Fran shouldn't be here._

 _Ash scrutinised the notes in silence. 'What sort of state is the mother in?'_

 _'Concerned. BP is higher than it should be.'_

 _'Any bleeding?'_

 _'No.'_

 _Ash handed the notes onto Cal. 'Let's take a look at her.'_

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'Under Pressure' by Queen and David Bowie.


	17. When Doves Cry

**Okay, so this chapter comes with 2 health warnings:**

 **1\. It's pretty bleak.**

 **2\. If you're not sold on Tiffany, she'll not do much to help herself today.**

 **On a positive note, it quotes from an amazing song, so maybe listen to that as well.**

* * *

 _Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cry._

If Tiffany Gray on an ordinary day was a whirlwind, her reaction this morning was a whole other level. She pounced upon Max excitedly, apparently more thrilled by his birthday than he was. Again, he wondered when they'd become such best buddies, and why it felt like such a burden.

'Thanks,' he said when he was able to get his breath back from her too-enthusiastic hug and kiss. Glancing down at the card she'd given him, he asked, 'Should I open it now?'

'It's only a card,' she shrugged. 'My mom always said you should do cards.'

In a world where his own brother had sent only a brief cursory text, Tiffany's old-fashioned gesture was strangely touching. It was 'only a card' as she said, a generic, supposedly humorous offering which said nothing about either of them as people, but she'd scrawled his name inside and finished it with the kind of flashy signature that he might have expected from her. She'd even – yes, he checked – dotted her 'i' with a heart. This signature belonged in an autograph book. Again, he wondered how she'd ended up in Holby at all.

That wasn't a topic he'd get an answer to today though, as Tiffany was already rhapsodising about his birthday drinks that evening. 'Are we going anywhere after the pub?'

'I… don't know.' He hadn't given it much thought. For the first time in his life, he would have been content to have his birthday pass with little ceremony, and if it wasn't for the combined efforts of Robyn, Lofty, and most of all, Tiffany, he thought it probably would have done. Given how frosty his relationship with his sister had been recently, he saw it as a positive that she wanted to celebrate his ongoing existence in the world, so he'd cobbled together a vague plan of drinks after work. At least they all seemed excited.

'There's a new bar in town we should check out.' How she always knew the newest hottest places to go, Max was unsure. Where she found the time to investigate them was one thing, between her job and her apparently on-again relationship with Ethan. These didn't sound much like the sorts of places her beau would enjoy. Speaking of which…

'Is Ethan coming tonight?'

'Yeah.' A half-shrug, suggesting she was almost shy when it came to talking about him. 'He said he'd come for a bit.'

'Right.'

Tiffany rolled her eyes. 'Are you gonna be like Iain too?'

'What do you mean?'

'I know you don't like him.'

'Ethan? He's alright.' He was. There were definitely worse guys somebody could date, and if one of Max's sisters brought him home, it would be a step up from some of the men they'd been with. 'What does Iain say about him?'

'Nothing. He just…' Tiffany shrugged again, and Max knew exactly what lay behind that shrug.

'It isn't that we don't like him.'

'But?'

Now he was pressed, Max wished he hadn't pursued this. Iain seemed to have dodged this issue; he should have followed suit. 'You're just very… different.'

'Different? Like, that's a bad thing?'

'No! Just… well, you're not exactly…'

'Not exactly what?'

He opened his mouth to reply. Then, knowing he could never say what he really meant without upsetting her, and having had enough of upsetting women in general of late, he opted for his usual way out. He bottled it.

'Is that the time? I really must get going. Thanks for the card. See you later.' He fairly ran indoors, arriving early for the first time in weeks, something he felt the need to point out as Tess still gave him a pointed look. 'What? I'm early!'

For an answer, she merely handed him a tissue and compact mirror. Tiffany had left a perfect scarlet lip print on his cheek.

'Let's at least start the day professionally,' Tess said. 'There's a patient in cubicle seven to take up to x-ray when you've tidied yourself up.'

Scrubbing fruitlessly at the mark, Max wondered when his birthday was going to start looking up.

* * *

'We've just received advance warning of a mass pile-up on the bypass,' Tess explained to the department. 'Between ten and fifteen casualties coming in besides walking wounded. The first should be arriving in the next fifteen minutes. We've cleared resus already. Can I ask everybody to make clearing cubicles and HDC a priority in the short term?'

General nods and grunts.

'Ethan, Lily, with me in resus,' Ash directed them. 'We'll direct the minor injuries through to you,' he added, nodding in Cal and Francesca's direction.

Fran nodded. Minor injuries: she could do that. It wasn't fun and glamorous, but she wasn't feeling very fun or glamorous today, so she could deal with that. Cal had slightly more to say about it, but time was of the essence and so Ash soon left them to it.

Or left her to it anyway. Cal hung around precisely as long as it took him to realise that the real action was in resus, whereupon he made himself entirely indispensable. It was one way of gaining more experience, Fran supposed, even if it was leaving her in the lurch. Ordinarily she wouldn't have minded, would have liked being in charge of her own little kingdom in HDC. It was a step too far today though; much as she'd have liked to continue ignoring it, she was thirty-six weeks pregnant. That came with all manner of side-effects and symptoms, but the main one was the reason why she hadn't fought to be in at the thick end of the action. She was exhausted. It was a fatigue which seeped into every thought, every movement, every action. Never a good sleeper, she was finding the hot summer nights impossible with an extra body inside her body. On top of that, she had a hitch-hiker with her twenty-four hours a day. Running cubicles by herself during a major incident was something the Fran of eight months ago would have relished. Today, she wished her eldest brother would think about somebody other than himself just for once.

It took until the fifth patient was brought through for anybody else to notice Cal's absence. She supposed that was a compliment of sorts; she'd managed it all well so far. Now that she was tied up with one patient as another was wheeled in – by Max, naturally – somebody finally noticed Doctor Knight wasn't where he should be.

'Where the hell is Cal?' Charlie voiced everybody's question as the last bed was taken up. He was met with silence until he directly asked, 'Francesca?'

Too tired to lie, she said, 'He's in resus.' Then, pulling him back out from underneath the bus, she added, 'He's helping. It's fine.' Finishing up with her own patient, she turned her attention to the one Max had wheeled in. 'What have we got?'

'This is Jen Oakley. She was at the back of the pile-up. CT scan was clear on her neck, though she is still complaining of pain.' Robyn paused before adding, 'We've already paged obs and gynae.'

Jen's hands rested protectively on her stomach, a stance Fran had noticed she had begun to strike herself. As if a pair of hands could protect what lay within from anything, she thought darkly, thinking of the sort of trauma of a car crash and what could be going on inside there.

'I'm fine,' Jen insisted now, a sentiment Fran recognised all too well. 'Honestly. Forget about me. What about the baby?'

'She's thirty-five weeks,' Robyn reported. 'Shall I sort out an ultrasound?'

Fran nodded. 'Are you in any pain? Apart from your neck,' she clarified.

Jen shook her head.

'Have you felt the baby kicking recently?'

'I… I don't know.'

A wave of nausea passed through Fran before she said to Robyn, 'Make it fast with that scanner.'

The nurse nodded, for once all animosity gone as she gave Fran one last concerned look before hurrying to complete the actions. Leaving Fran and Charlie and Max and a room full of patients. Aware of how everybody was looking to her, waiting for her direction, she made a choice.

'I'll get back on to obs and gynae.'

Charlie was at her shoulder within seconds, and no amount of ignoring him would shake him off. As her fingers dialled the number, he said, 'You don't have to do this, Francesca.'

'Do what?'

'We can get Cal back from resus.'

Fran feigned ignorance; if Charlie was going to say this, he was going to damn well say it.

As if he realised that, he gave a sigh and said, 'Cal can handle Jen Oakley, given your…' He tailed off, knowing he'd made a mistake.

Fran stared him down. 'I think I'll be just fine.' Then she turned her attention back to the phone call and the important things: her job, being Francesca Hardy, being a brilliant doctor.

* * *

'Good work, team,' Ash congratulated them in the brief calm after the storm. The last patient from the pile-up had been stabilised, several had already been transferred to the appropriate wards. It had all run like an incredibly well-oiled machine, everybody in the right places at the right time doing precisely the right thing. When the ED worked like that, it was something like a symphony in Cal's mind, even as that sounded far too poetic for him to be thinking.

'Ethan, can I leave you here whilst I check in on HDC?' Ash asked now, shedding yet another pair of gloves. 'Lily, can you accompany your patient upstairs? And Cal…' He tailed off, as if this was the first time he'd really noticed the registrar in the room. 'What's going on in HDC?'

Cal wondered if he should admit he hadn't been there in over an hour. Opting for the negative, he said, 'Fran's got it under control.'

Ash frowned. 'Maybe you ought to come and lend a hand.'

Cal was about to object to that; it sounded as though he _hadn't_ been helping out so far, which was patently untrue as he'd helped just as much as Ethan, if not more. Why out-performing his little brother was so important he wasn't sure. It likely wasn't the sort of argument that would fly with Doctor Ashford, so he kept quiet as he followed the consultant.

On first glance, everything in HDC did indeed seem to be under control, much as Cal would have expected from his little sister. Patients were stable; obs were being completed on schedule; all of the paperwork was neatly and diligently completed. This was a slick operation. He was close to congratulating himself on giving Fran this opportunity to shine, even inadvertently. This was something to be proud of.

Then he saw her, and her face painted a very different picture from the beds around her. Always tough on herself, her set jaw and troubled brow suggested that something wasn't going as well as she had hoped. There was more though: Cal hadn't realised how much his sister had really changed over the past few months. Somewhere, vaguely, he'd known she was getting bigger, of course, but this was a moment when he really _looked_. And she looked awful. Usually so pulled together, so immaculate, so perfect, she looked nothing short of miserable. Her hair was tugged back with little thought to its arrangement, her forehead was beaded with sweat. Cal felt a definite sense of guilt; he'd abandoned her to deal with HDC on her own when she looked like this. He was the very worst of brothers.

To say Fran looked relieved to see Ash and Cal was an understatement. Her words tripped over each other in her haste to share her concern.

'I've paged obs and gynae several times,' she explained as Ash looked through Jen Oakley's notes. 'The scan shows the baby is still moving, if a bit sluggishly. We've detected a heartbeat but the baby seems to be in distress. I'd move her upstairs but…' A shrug which seemed helpless confirmed it for Cal: Fran shouldn't be here.

Ash scrutinised the notes in silence. 'What sort of state is the mother in?'

'Concerned. BP is higher than it should be.'

'Any bleeding?'

'No.'

Ash handed the notes onto Cal. 'Let's take a look at her.'

All of Fran's reports were accurate, as Cal would have expected. Even looking as she did, his sister was a thorough, efficient doctor. All of the signs were pointing towards needing to get the baby out, and out quickly, but with no call back from gynae, things were deteriorating in front of their eyes.

'Cal, get onto obs and gynae again. Ask to speak to Derwood Thompson directly.' Ash issued his orders. 'Have we got any relatives yet?' he asked as Robyn came back in the door.

'Her husband's just arrived,' the nurse informed them.

'I'll speak to him,' Ash decided. 'Unless you'd like to, Fran?'

Cal hesitated on his way to the phone. 'Is that a good idea?' Instantly his sister shot him a disgusted look, as if she knew what he was thinking and hated it. 'I just meant…'

'I'm fine,' Fran insisted, her mantra for when things were far from fine. 'I can speak to Mr Oakley before he comes through.'

He would have protested, insisted upon her seeing some sense, if he hadn't known deep down inside that the concern painted all across her face was at least partially caused by him. So instead he did as he was asked on this one occasion and called Derwood Thompson, a consultant obstetrician who should have been above going by a nickname like 'Mr T' by now.

Still, at least the guy was coming down 'as soon as I possibly can', which seemed to be more of a promise than Fran had elicited from the department so far. That was something. Much as Cal liked to work things out himself, it was sometimes necessary to call in the professionals, and this was one of those times. Mr T might even be able to persuade Fran that working a shift in the ED at 8 months pregnant was ridiculous. God knows no one else would manage it.

Andy Oakley was, understandably, as concerned as his wife regarding the well-being of their unborn child. Clasping her hand in his, he asked question after question, demanding to know why Jen hadn't been seen by a specialist yet, why she was still waiting in the ED when this was a maternity issue. All good questions, Cal thought, and their answers wouldn't measure up against expectations because Mr Oakley was hitting the nail on the head. Fran really didn't need to hear any of it though; she'd take it all to heart and blame herself for every failing in the hospital system. The arrival of Mr T couldn't have come soon enough.

His first words weren't the most helpful though. 'Why wasn't I paged before?' he asked within seconds of being briefed on the issue. 'She should be up with us. She needs a C-section.'

'Nobody was interested,' Fran said, a little defiantly. 'I kept on calling.'

'We have been onto your department several times,' Charlie confirmed.

Mr T seemed contrite at that. 'Always ask for me,' he said, before adding, 'Can we move her upstairs?'

'Her BP is all over the place,' Ash replied. 'We could move her, but…'

'I can't perform a C-section down here!' the obstetrician insisted. 'I haven't got any of the equipment, the staff!'

'And I'm not happy to see our patient moved when it's not in her best interests,' Ash insisted.

Stalemate. Cal looked between the two consultants, wondering who would crack first.

With a sigh, Mr T said, 'I think we can afford a slight delay. Is there any way you can stabilise her before we move her?'

Ash seemed about to reply, to broker this deal which was the mainstay of all interactions across the hospital. It was one of the reasons why Cal sometimes wondered if he'd ever make consultant: compromising wasn't in his nature.

Then Jen Oakley crashed. Then there was blood everywhere. And shortly after that, Cal wished he'd done as he was asked in the first place.

* * *

There were lots of things Max said he hated about his job, especially if he was having a bad day. Laundry runs were unexciting, transporting samples was unglamorous. Shift work was the devil's own. Looked at objectively, there was nothing in his job description which lit the heart up.

This, though. _This_ was something to hate, so much so that Max made a promise not to use that word again for anything else. It was a promise he knew he'd break, but that wasn't really the point. The point was that this was so awful, so heinous, that nothing else in his working life came close. It deserved its very own vocabulary.

Mortuary runs were one of the more challenging aspects of his day anyway. For somebody so sunny natured, death continually came as a shock, even at the age of twenty-nine. The only thing which ever made them bearable was the mortuary attendants and their own unique sense of humour. If nothing else, it reminded him that his own jokes barely scratched the surface of depraved.

But nothing would make this bearable today. Having been asked to complete this job over half an hour ago, he was still waiting to start, and he really didn't mind. This could take all day as far as he was concerned. Let it take until the end of the shift, so he could pass this duty off onto somebody else. He wouldn't even feel guilty about it.

But still he waited, leaning against the nurses' station uneasily, unsure if he should be doing something else instead as the whole department tried to get back to normal. It was impossible though, because only the other side of those resus doors, Jen and Andy Oakley were having the very worst day of their life. How could anybody continue on, business as usual, when a young couple were saying goodbye to the baby they'd never had the chance to know?

The department was thin on staff at the moment anyway, with Ash, Cal, Charlie and Francesca cloistered in Ash's office, rehashing what had happened, preparing a party line. Max tried not to think too cynically about that; he only needed to have looked at his colleagues' faces as they walked away from resus to know that nobody here had slacked off, nobody could have done any more for that baby than they had. Even Cal, usually so self-confident, looked as if he was ready for a fortnight off from work. This sort of case drained everybody.

Still, he mustered the energy to stand up straight as Tess came back through the doors. Much as he might complain about his boss, he had to admit she was good at this. Just as when Jeff had died, she was pulling them all together, taking care of them in the way only she could.

Now, she laid a hand on his arm as she went past. 'They're not quite ready yet, Max. Why don't you get a coffee while you're waiting?'

He tried not to goggle at her when she said that; normally she was berating his too-frequent breaks, not encouraging them.

'I can… do something…' he said, weakly and unhelpfully, not specifying what that something was.

She gave him the sort of smile which made him feel twelve again, the responsibility of being okay in somebody else's hands for one moment. 'You're okay,' she said. 'I'll check on Jen and Andy again in a minute. You just make sure you take care of that little boy for them.'

He nodded. 'Yeah, sure,' he said, hoping he sounded more nonchalant than he felt. 'I… I might head out for some… air.'

Tess nodded. 'I'll send someone to get you when we're ready.'

Max hesitated, wondering if he should ask or not. 'Does it… does it have to be me?' Then, hearing how it sounded, he added, 'I mean…'

But Tess interrupted. 'I know you'll do a good job, Max.' It was the nicest thing she'd ever said to him.

Buoyed up by that and several hits of nicotine, things seemed marginally better as Max sat outside in the sunshine. It was looking like it would be a lovely summer, one filled with fresh breezes and clear skies and wall-to-wall sunshine. It never failed to strike Max as strange, how at odds the outside of the hospital could be compared to the inside. By rights, it should be thundering rain out here, apocalyptic. Jen and Andy's world had crumbled to the ground in a matter of seconds. It didn't seem right that it was still so beautiful out here.

Smoking without Tiffany around was practically unthinkable now, so he was unsurprised when she dropped down onto the bench next to him. What was unusual was how quiet she was, none of her quips or chaotic energy present. It seemed the sombre atmosphere in the department had spread as far as the paramedic crew.

'So the baby died?' she asked eventually, asking in a way which said she already knew but didn't want to believe it.

'Yeah.'

A pause. Then, 'We should have got her here quicker.'

He turned to her. 'No. No, it wasn't your fault. It was… nobody's fault.' That didn't make it any better. Nothing would make it better. The cold bare facts were unavoidable. The Oakleys had started the day as prospective parents and ended it as something so awful that there wasn't even a proper name for it.

'"For sale: baby shoes, never worn."' Tiffany took a moment to recognise his look of surprise. 'It's a story. Ernest Hemingway wrote it, it's-'

'-The shortest short story on record. Yeah, I know.' Max nodded. He just hadn't expected Tiffany to know. He gave her more of his attention, wondering whether she and Ethan weren't such a bad fit after all.

Silence reigned over them for a short moment.

'It must have been horrible for Francesca.'

Max hadn't even thought about that. He could have blamed it upon not wanting to open that particular can of worms, but the truth was that he'd grown so used to not thinking about her that it was almost second nature by now. He hadn't thought about Francesca because he didn't think about Francesca. Now he knew how right Tiffany was and he felt like a horrid person. He'd been feeling like that a lot recently.

In an attempt not to be, he said, 'Maybe I should cancel tonight.'

'Why?'

Shrugging, he said, 'Is anybody going to want to celebrate?' The only time he'd seen the department more subdued was on the day of Jeff's funeral. That wasn't conducive to a happy birthday.

But Tiffany shook her head. 'People need a drink.' By 'people', he assumed she was referring mainly to herself. 'We should still go.'

Taking party advice from the girl who'd vomited on her date's brother's shoes. Max had made worse decisions.

'Max?' Noel called. 'They're… ready.'

Max got to his feet. Here it went then. If they were ready, he could… try.

* * *

As the staffroom door closed, Fran remembered one of the primary things she hated most about still being a junior doctor. Connie and Ash, even Charlie and Tess, could retreat away into their own offices, draw the blinds and do whatever they wished: scream, shout, rail at the utter unfairness of life. Even cry. Not that she would do that, obviously, but having the option would have been nice.

Instead here she was, in the only space available to her to try and collect her thoughts after what had happened today, and she couldn't even be left in peace then.

'Francesca.'

Keeping her back firmly to him, she said, 'I'll be out in a minute, Charlie.' She waited, hoping the door would open again and the nurse would leave her in peace.

She waited in vain.

'Are you alright?'

'Fine.' Which was basically the best way of saying 'no' without admitting it. Then, as if to make it even worse, she added, 'Honestly, Charlie, I'll be out right now.'

The silence held for several seconds. Usually Fran was the only one who could stand that sort of break in conversation. She assumed Charlie was about to admit defeat and leave.

'What happened today was no-one's fault, you know.'

'I know.'

Charlie moved alongside her at the sink. 'I mean, no-one. Not Jen and Andy's, not Tiffany and Iain's, not Robyn's… and definitely not yours.'

She didn't reply.

'Babies… they're funny things. Sometimes you can do everything right, eat all of the right things, have all of the checks, follow every piece of advice and… it's just not meant to be. And it's heart-wrenching and it destroys you. Then you pick yourself up and you keep going.'

'You make it sound very simple.'

'It always is when it isn't you.' After a pause, Charlie added, 'I will be speaking to Connie about this. Not about you,' he said hastily as she started. 'About the situation. You should never have been put in that situation.'

Instantly, Fran was on guard. 'Why?'

Charlie's face registered his surprise at her sudden change of mood. 'Well, given the circumstances…'

'What circumstances?' she demanded. Then, before he could answer, she added, 'I'm not _ill_ , Charlie. I am perfectly capable of doing anything anybody else in this department is able to do. I don't need special treatment, I'm-'

'Alright, alright,' Charlie interrupted, holding up his hands as if to soothe a particularly fractious animal. 'I wasn't saying you weren't. I just wanted to let you know that – nobody blames you. I'll… see you back out there soon. Take as long as you need.'

The door closed behind him finally and Fran waited to feel better now she was alone again. It didn't come, because Charlie was entirely wrong. There was somebody who blamed Fran and it was the one person she could never get away from. Somewhere deep inside of her, she knew she could have done more today, should have been able to send Jen and Andy home with the baby they so desperately wanted. Instead she was going home with the baby she didn't, and she couldn't blame herself more for that if she tried.

* * *

That Cal knew precisely why Charlie was making a bee-line for him didn't mean he was ready to hear it. The day had been trying enough without the nurse looking to apportion blame. He'd already been left in no doubt that Ash was holding him at least partially responsible, for making their enquiries that bit more complicated if nothing else. Cal didn't think anybody really thought that his presence in HDC could have worked some miracle on that doomed baby; it was the paperwork he was messing up, that was all.

That clearly wasn't quite how Charlie saw it though, and Cal braced himself for a telling off.

'It's about Francesca.'

Cal tried not to seem weary, because it always seemed to be about Francesca these days. 'Charlie, she's just my sister, it doesn't mean I get her.'

'I've just spoken to her.' Which Cal should probably have done. 'She's not coping very well.' Correction: Cal should _definitely_ have done.

'It's… been a tough day.' The shrug was probably too much.

'Cal, she's eight months pregnant. She's just watched a stillbirth.' Charlie looked at him as if unsure what part of this he wasn't getting, and Cal wasn't sure himself. 'She might need some support.'

Cal almost snorted a response. 'Fran? Support? She's been looking after herself way longer than I have.' He wondered if this sounded as unconvincing to Charlie as it sounded to him. True as the words were, it also sounded a lot like he was making excuses and trying to avoid taking some responsibility. Which, basically, he was.

Just as Charlie opened his mouth to speak again, Cal followed up with, 'She's fine, Charlie. You don't know her like I do.'

That stumped the nurse. Fran had made next to no effort to get to know her colleagues in the nine months she'd been here (unless you counted Max, which Cal very much didn't). She'd been her usual reserved professional self, maybe even more so, retreating inwards as her body had moved outwards. The past few months probably had been tough, and she still had a few weeks to go, but then it would be over and everything would be alright again. As long as he kept believing that, he could continue to go along with her wishes, drawing a veil over the whole business.

Now, before Charlie could think up a response, he picked up the notes of a patient he'd discharged hours ago, a job he'd usually leave to somebody else, most likely Ethan. 'I'll catch you later, Charlie.' Then he was away, doing anything he could other than face up to his sister and the way he was letting her down every second of every day.

* * *

'Ethan?'

Ethan looked up from filling in his final form of the day. He'd thought everybody else had long ago left the department, making a direct line for the pub and Max's birthday celebrations. He was supposed to have met Tiffany there – half an hour ago, now, judging by his watch, and he was hoping to wrap up here as soon as possible. Now Charlie was hovering with a look on his face which said he wouldn't be leaving for the foreseeable future. He could only hope it wasn't yet another case of sunstroke.

'Yes Charlie?' he said, hoping he sounded more polite than he really felt.

'I wanted to talk to you about something. It's about Francesca.'

Ethan tried not to sigh. He should have guessed. Today had been a whirlwind, filled with tears and recriminations and guilt. And here came another barrel-load of the stuff: he hadn't even asked how his sister was.

'What about her?' he asked now, cagily, even as he knew what was coming.

'I had a short chat with her earlier.' There was something new: Fran didn't usually do chats. Charlie must have more skills than anybody had ever suspected. 'I got the impression she wasn't coping very well.'

Ethan didn't bother asking with what. Charlie was clearly talking about the elephant in the room, the one thing Fran wouldn't talk about to anybody unless pressed. Given the events of the day, it was the one thing everybody was talking about behind her back, and he felt a need to defend his little sister.

'She's had a hard day.'

'I know. We all know that, Ethan, we're not… criticising her. I was just wondering whether she's getting all the support she needs.' Then, hastily, Charlie added, 'And I'm not criticising you or Cal either.'

Shrugging, Ethan secretly felt he deserved any criticism he'd got. So caught up in his own affairs, so distracted by Tiffany, he'd overlooked his sister, assuming she was fine because she always was. At least, he'd told himself she was. _Because that's what you wanted to believe_ , he told himself now, remembering how he'd thought the same thing all of those years ago at school. Only Cal had seen the truth then.

'Have you spoken to Cal?' He hated himself for asking, but he knew how this worked. Cal was Fran's choice of confidante. If anybody knew how she was feeling, it would be her not-quite-brother.

'He didn't seem concerned.'

Ethan studied the nurse's face. 'But you think he should be?'

'You know your sister better than I do,' Charlie insisted. Then, 'But I do know how scary becoming a parent can be. There's a lot going on for Fran right now. She's a very independent woman-'

Ethan smiled.

'-But even they can do with a bit of help sometimes. I'll leave it with you. Let me know if we can do anything.'

'Yes. Thanks Charlie.' Ethan meant it. Sometimes he forgot what a place Holby could be, when he'd had a bad day and he was exhausted. It meant a lot to have somebody like Charlie care about Fran because she didn't make it easy. He was pleased there was somebody else who wanted to help her. He just wasn't sure how he could make it any better for her.

* * *

'So… she's drunk.'

'It would seem so.'

Max looked across the bar again at where Tiffany was keeping herself upright through a combination of the wall and sheer luck. She was surrounded by colleagues, friends, and that was comforting; Max would have intervened long ago if she'd been surrounded by anybody else.

'So, should we…?' he asked, gesturing towards her with his pint. Truthfully he'd had probably one too many so far so he was hoping Iain's answer was going to be to the negative. He looked to the paramedic for a response.

Iain's eyes never left her, as if he was processing information, weighing up the pros and cons. Then, finally, 'She's alright, I think. I thought she was meeting Ethan.'

'And this is how she deals with being stood up?' It was a method, he guessed.

'She's not good with rejection.'

Once again, Max wondered how Iain knew so much about Tiffany. For all of her open-spirit and forthrightness, she remained an enigma for the most part. Sometimes Iain said things which suggested she'd opened up to him in a way that Max couldn't quite imagine. It was almost as if he'd known her before she arrived in Holby, understood what made her tick and why she was the way she was. Emboldened by beer, he was about to ask what the deal was there.

'All she's talked about all day is that baby.'

That made much more sense; Max had been exactly the same. Taking that tiny body down to the mortuary had been the longest walk of his life, every step feeling wrong. The unchecked sobs of Jen Oakley had haunted him down the corridors, and even the mortuary attendants hadn't been able to find anything funny in this situation. Max had beat a hasty retreat and then suffered the rest of the day underneath a cloud of foreboding. He knew precisely how Tiffany felt.

'Sorry, mate, I shouldn't have brought that up,' Iain said now, shaking his head. 'Not really a birthday thought.'

'It's alright. I'm… not much in a birthday mood,' Max admitted.

Iain nodded. 'Yeah. Well, you know what I always say? If you can't get happy, get drunk.' He clinked his beer bottle against Max's and signalled to the barman for the same again.

It was a sentiment Max could get on board with, and did so for the next hour or two. Lofty was only too happy to keep him company, whilst even Robyn, for perhaps the first time in months, wasn't criticising him. Beer seven took the edge off of the day and Max thought he might even be able to say his twenty-ninth was a good day.

Tiffany was faring rather differently. Her drink of choice, red wine, was both more potent and more risky than beer. As the end of the night drew near, and she stumbled outside, lighter in hand, she had a Joker-style smile and a stain down her top. It wasn't a good look and Max thought somebody should probably do something. By 'somebody', he meant anybody but him; dealing with a drunk Tiffany would be the very worst way to finish up an already borderline birthday. Iain was still here somewhere. He could step in.

Or Ethan, Max thought, as the doctor crossed the road from the hospital, hours after his shift had ended. Ethan could deal with her. After all, they were dating or hooking up or whatever term they'd put upon it. It was sort of his duty to manage Tiffany in these circumstances. Let Ethan deal with it.

What was the worst that could happen?

* * *

There was a reason you didn't stay on after a shift had ended. Even when fully staffed, the NHS could always do with every hand they could find, and Ethan had lingered just that bit too long after speaking to Fran; it would have been unthinkable to walk out just when a major incident had come in. Now he was three hours late for meeting Tiffany and more exhausted than ever, thanks for the most part to his impossible sister.

Typically, Fran had batted away all of his concerns, filing them away as stupid and unnecessary.

'I'm pregnant, not ill,' she reminded him at least twice. 'There's nothing wrong with my work.'

That was true enough: what had happened today wasn't her fault. And yet Ethan, like Charlie, didn't think she was as fine as she claimed. She looked pale and tired, her eyes ringed with heavy shadows that no amount of her expensive make-up could cover. That she hadn't even confided in Cal spoke volumes: she was suffering and would never let any of them know it.

So they'd talked around in circles and she had never once strayed from her mantra that she was fine, perfect, there was nothing wrong. It was admirable on one level, and entirely frustrating on another. She left just as indignantly independent; he'd left feeling even more useless than usual. Attending Max's birthday drinks, the source of all this tension in the first place, ranked pretty lowly on his list of ways to spend what remained of the evening. If he wasn't meeting Tiffany, he'd have given it a swerve for certain.

The party seemed to have spilled outside, probably driven by the birthday boy's penchant for cigarettes. Ethan still wondered how so many people of his generation could continue to smoke given everything they now knew about their effects. Cal wouldn't be told, always knowing best, and Max was none of Ethan's concern anyway. Tiffany, though. It seemed strange that she'd smoke, yet another way in which he doubted whatever he felt for her every single day.

It wasn't until he was nearly upon her that he realised she was drunk. She was usually loud and extroverted, so it was easy to blame her laughter and the way she was hanging off of Lofty's arm on nothing more than her usual personality. Then he realised she was slurring her words and her top was stained with wine. This was as bad as he'd ever seen her. It reflected badly upon him that his instinct was to turn and walk away.

Fighting against his nature, he instead tried to join the group she was in, something which had never, and he doubted would ever, work for him.

Sure enough, Tiffany gave him the frostiest of shoulders, something only highlighted by how she continued to dazzle Lofty with her full attention. The nurse looked half-awestruck, half-terrified by such attention, something Ethan might have been able to enjoy if wasn't so exhausted and if he wasn't wondering whether he looked like that when Tiffany looked at him.

Sensing the tension, Lofty did his best to duck out of the situation. 'Oh, hi Ethan,' he said, horribly awkwardly. 'I'm… I'm going to head off I think, Tiffany. Long day and everything.'

Prey gone, Tiffany flickered an irritated looked in Ethan's direction. 'You made it then.'

'Sorry,' he began, apologising out of habit, even as he felt she was being overly-sensitive. 'I got held up at work.'

'You could have called.'

'I was busy. I was _working_.' Ethan frowned. She knew what ED medicine was like, how a job was never quite finished, how you could get dragged back into things as easily as blinking.

'I've waited for you all night.'

'I know. I've said I'm sorry. I had to see Fran and then I got asked to stay on and-'

'Your sister? You said you got held up at work.'

'After I'd spoken to Fran.' He considered appealing to Tiffany's sympathetic side, the one which had expressed some concern for Fran's situation on a handful of occasions. She wasn't a bad person. Then he realised that that particular side was drowned in wine right now, so he didn't try.

Instead, he suggested, 'Maybe we should go home.' He even reached for her elbow, aiming to steer her towards his car and take her away from this evening. Whatever happened next she would only regret it. He was saving her from herself.

She ducked out from his grasp. 'I'm not done. I'm having a good time. It's a party, Ethan, lighten up!'

He wondered if she knew how uncanny an impression of Cal that was. Like a dog, he responded instinctively to her tone. 'I'm not feeling in a very party-like mood. Let's just go.'

'You can if you want.' Tiffany shrugged. 'I'm good here.' She stared him down, a challenge. Who would blink first?

Reason told Ethan to walk away, keep his head and his cool and his pride. He'd managed it for so many years, refusing to give his brother the satisfaction of a response to his constant needling. This was something he'd been in training for his whole life. He could definitely do this.

And yet, he thought, why should he? Why should he have to bite his tongue, listen to yet another person in his life speaking to him like this? Where it came from, he had no idea, but from somewhere he found the words that escaped before he'd really thought them through.

'Don't be like this.'

'Be like what? Pissed off that my date opted to spend the evening gossiping with his sister rather than with me?'

'That's not what it was. She… needed me.' A total lie, one which only made him feel worse about how this whole day had gone. Fran never needed him.

'Because she's having such a hard time?' Tiffany rolled her eyes. 'Because she's the only woman ever to get pregnant?'

That was below the belt. Fran had gone out of her way to attempt to make everybody forget she was pregnant, working harder, pushing herself further. She had never once asked for special consideration. What was more, Tiffany barely knew her, almost never spoke to her: this level of vitriol was uncalled for.

And then Tiffany went lower. Of course she did; taking things to extremes was kind of her thing, from alcohol to dates to insulting her colleagues. Just as Ethan recovered from her wince-inducing previous words, she added, 'Has she worked out who the daddy is yet?'

The group fell silent momentarily, those who had imbibed almost as much as Tiffany giving exaggerated gasps. She stared at him, inebriated-confidence only slightly tempered by the way she weighed up his response. She knew she'd said something wrong, something really hurtful… and she was _pleased_.

'That was unnecessary,' Ethan said finally, knowing that his words didn't even fall into the same ballpark as Tiffany's. 'You didn't have to say that.'

It was like she couldn't help herself. 'You didn't have to stand me up.'

'I didn't stand you up! I'm here, aren't I?' It took a few seconds for Ethan to realise he was shouting, and he fought to calm himself; losing his temper wouldn't help anybody, least of all himself. 'I don't have to take this.'

'Why not, you take it off your brother all the time.'

How had she managed that? A few short months and she'd somehow wormed herself right to the heart of his insecurities, seamlessly pin-pointed his weak spots. He didn't know where she'd got these ideas from: his concern for Fran, his frustrations with Cal. They hadn't got to that stuff yet, hadn't poured out their messy histories for each other's perusal. He knew almost nothing about her, and yet she'd summed up everything about him in one simple statement. It was astounding and devastating at the same time.

By now, everybody had stopped talking and was watching the scene in front of them. All of his colleagues, the people he wanted to respect him, were hearing his all-but-girlfriend expose his family secrets. If she'd wanted to hurt him, she'd done exactly the right thing.

Still he swallowed his temper, fought against acting out like his older brother. Being patient was his forte. He could do this.

'I'm…going to go home,' he decided, knowing that staying here was out of the question even if he wanted to. And he really didn't want to, he realised as he looked at Tiffany. He didn't want to be anywhere near her.

'Yeah, whatever, run away.' She rolled her eyes, as if this was one of many fights they'd had instead of only the first; he refused to think of what had happened at the museum as a fight, because if it was, neither of them had ever apologised and that spoke volumes more than he was willing to face. 'Go home before you embarrass yourself.'

That pushed buttons. 'Embarrass myself? You need to take a look at yourself, Tiffany.'

'Who's embarrassed?' She flung her arms out dramatically. 'I'm not.'

'Tiff.' Iain Dean suddenly stepped in, a hand on her elbow, a dominance in his style. She talked about him all the time, Ethan realised. She never mentioned family or friends or whatever she'd left behind in California, but her partner she didn't stop talking about. And Ethan liked him, he really did, but he suddenly wondered if he hadn't been taken for more of a fool than he'd first thought.

'Get off.' Tiffany wrestled herself out of his hold but she'd calmed, quietened, like an animal under its master's touch. Now she looked more vulnerable than anything else, the kind of person who needed protecting, not condemning. The kind of person Ethan could fall for over and over again. He was halfway there already.

'I thought you were going?' she threw out like poison.

He swallowed down his retort and walked away, trying to believe he was doing the right thing.

* * *

 ** _Next time: Officially Alive (Part 1)_**

 _'You didn't have to make all the decisions,' Max said._

 _'Well who else was going to?' Fran demanded. 'I didn't see a whole long line of people queueing up to help me out, did you? Somebody needed to make decisions and I made them.'_

 _'On your own?'_

 _'On my own.' Fran nodded emphatically to punctuate her point. 'What?' she demanded, as Max got to his feet, shaking his head, as though he couldn't stand being close to her. That hurt more than she'd expected._

 _'You.'_

 _'What about me?'_

 _'I just… I don't get you. It's like… you're a nice person, you are, really. You were amazing with Emily. But… then you act like this and…' Max frowned, leaning back against the lift wall and folding his arms. 'I just don't get it.'_

 _'I never asked you to.'_

 _'I know. That's sort of the point.'_

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'When Doves Cry' by Prince


	18. Interlude 2

**I like that people are starting to at least tolerate Tiffany. I especially like AVMabs' suggestion that she thinks of her like Buffy. I personally write her like Tiffany from Silver Linings Playbook - so, basically, Jennifer Lawrence. I know, lazy writing!**

 **More of my weird writing here, before the next 'episode' which is part 1 of a two parter...**

* * *

 _He wishes she'd cry. She'd be a far nicer person if she did that, ever for once really showed how affected she is by the trouble she causes. Because she is: he knows that. It might seem like she walks away unscathed, but he's the only one seeing her sit in her dimly lit kitchen, staring at the wall as her mind rolls over and over all the things she said. Crying would be a start to forgiving her._

 _He shoves the cup of coffee across the table at her. When she doesn't flicker, he says, 'Drink the coffee.'_

 _There's a slight delay but she eventually picks the mug up and raises it to her mouth, swallows dutifully, like a good girl, doing exactly what she's told. She can do it when she wants to. She's not as bad as she likes to pretend she is._

' _You don't have to stay.'_

 _He weighs that up for a second, considers taking her up on that offer. It's late and he's got work tomorrow and this isn't getting him anywhere. He could go. Then he remembers himself, the person he is. 'I'm not just going to leave you. God knows what you'd do.'_

' _I'd leave me.'_

 _Most people would. The very highest of highs tend to come with these crushing lows. There's a reason she's here, in England, this spring. Not many people would exchange the sunny beaches of LA for the damp streets of Holby. At least, not people with an actual choice._

' _Just as well you've got me then, isn't it?' He thinks back to his time in Afghanistan, and the words he used to hear:_ No man left behind. _He'd say them now if he wasn't suddenly worried that his wish might come true and she'd actually cry. He isn't prepared for that to happen._

 _The mug goes down onto the table again, drained. She'll be up all night but at least she might not wake up hating herself quite so much._

' _I'll make another cup.'_


	19. Officially Alive (Part 1)

**A very long chapter, hence it being split into two - a two-parter if you will. I'll let you get on with it.**

* * *

 _It's when you're so in love and so in pain._

Locking the car, Ethan found himself instinctively checking the ambulance that had just pulled up outside of the ED, and he wasn't sure whether his heart was racing faster out of excitement or fear. He'd been away from work for a few days – long overdue payback for overtime – and hoped that the dust might have settled now. People might have forgotten the scene outside of the pub, moved onto some new gossip. If he could just avoid bumping into Tiffany before he'd even set foot inside the building, he might be okay.

'Ethan?' He whirled around to find Iain, dressed in civvies. 'Have you got a minute?'

He wasn't quite Tiffany, but he was close enough to make Ethan reluctant to engage. 'I'm going to be late.'

'It won't take long. It's about Tiff.'

As if it would be about anything else. Ethan had never had anything much to talk to Iain about before, and he expected there would be little to discuss in the future. They shared almost no common interests and their personalities were vastly different. The only thing they had had to link them was Tiffany, and that was patently not going to be a thing anymore.

It still wasn't stopping Iain talking though. 'Look, she was really drunk the other night. If you'd seen her afterwards, she was a mess, she didn't know what she was saying.'

Ethan stared at him uncomprehendingly, wondering exactly what Iain was hoping to achieve here. None of this was endearing her to him; it was all confirming the conclusions he'd already come to: Tiffany was in no state to be engaging in any kind of relationship with anybody. Iain was wasting his time.

'She didn't mean it.'

God, if Ethan had a pound for every time Cal had said something like that to him, he'd be rich. Even fifty pence a go would led to a pretty lucrative set of savings. His older brother always claimed that whatever he'd done had been out of his control, beyond his influence, something that had just happened with little choice on his part. And Ethan always accepted it. Rolled his eyes, cursed him, yes, but he was his brother, the only one he had; he didn't really have an option.

Yet he was reminded of what Tiffany had said under the influence of drink: _you take it off your brother all the time_. Everybody had heard it, realised what a pushover Ethan Hardy was. They all saw the way Cal sauntered around, cherry-picking patients and treating his brother's flat as a glorified hotel. They probably wondered why he didn't send him packing. Then they watched as he did the exact same thing with Tiffany.

But he had a choice. Cal was blood. Tiffany was… _nothing_. The word sounded harsh, even when compared with the ones that had fallen from her lips. She was something. The point was that she didn't have to be _his_ something.

'She shouldn't have said it then.'

Iain seemed surprised by the response; people definitely saw Ethan as a doormat. Perhaps he'd expected him to immediately want to find Tiffany, listen to her apologies, forgive her. It had happened before, after all, and that time she hadn't even said sorry. He had form for letting her behave badly.

Determined to end it there, Ethan added, 'Look, Iain, I've got things to be doing, so if you'll excuse me.' Not allowing the paramedic a chance to protest, he swung through the next set of double doors and made his escape.

He hoped that was as difficult as the day was going to get.

* * *

It was for this exact reason that Fran had never gone into general practice. Seeing the same people, week after week, with the exact same problems and doing nothing about them was soul destroying. Of course, they had their regulars here in Holby, the usual down-and-outs who saw the ED as a way of passing the time. Patching them up and sending them back out into the world was fruitless but there wasn't an alternative.

She should be looking on the bright side. It had been four months since Emily Edison had last been here and judging by the records, she had indeed been to see her GP in the weeks following that. There'd been some sporadic appointments in the meantime and, reading between the lines, the GP was as concerned as Fran herself. Admittedly there didn't seem to have been much progress made, hence her arrival in the ED today.

What the records didn't prepare Fran for was the change in Emily in just four months. To say she was unrecognisable was a gross exaggeration, but the life and vitality than had existed inside of the teenager back in February had gone now. Such was the change that Fran was almost able to blame the cramp in her stomach upon shock.

Recovering her composure, she said, 'Emily. I don't know if you remember me. I'm-'

'Doctor Hardy,' Emily mumbled, even though she didn't seem like a mumbler. 'I remember.'

Of course she did. She was smart. 'What's brought you back here?'

When Emily didn't reply, Fran turned to Mrs Green.

'Emily had a bit of a funny turn at school again. Isn't that right, Emily?'

The teenager shrugged, focusing upon her bitten fingernails.

'Right.' Fran nodded. 'Okay. So I'd like to run some tests, check your iron levels, blood pressure-'

'I'm fine.'

Fran left the briefest pause before saying, 'You collapsed at school, Emily. I'd like to check what's causing that.' As if they weren't already all aware. 'Is that alright?'

A further shrug. Then, as Fran unlooped her stethoscope from around her neck, Emily said, 'You haven't had the baby yet.'

'Oh you noticed?' Fran didn't know where that had come from; she didn't usually joke with patients. It was the sort of flip comment she reserved for relatives only, only ever feeling that they would be received properly within the bond of family. She was glad she'd said it, though, as a smile flashed across Emily's face, transforming it from haunted to almost that of a normal teenage girl.

There was only so friendly Fran was able to be though. 'Can I have a listen to your chest for a moment?'

Standard health checks carried out, Fran recorded the results diligently, aware of Robyn hovering by her elbow. It was a mere formality; there was nothing any test or check over would tell her which her eyes couldn't.

'Is your mum on her way?' she asked as she jotted down the blood pressure readings.

'She's in London.'

'We've contacted her father,' Mrs Green explained.

Fran nodded. 'Okay. Robyn, can we get a full blood count please? Emily, is there anything that triggered this episode as far as you can recall? Any strenuous activity or particular movement?'

Another vague shrug.

'She was on her way between lessons,' Mrs Green explained. 'She was very lucky it wasn't on the stairs.'

'So you were just walking?' Fran checked, looking at the girl. 'Has this happened before?'

Emily was non-committal and Mrs Green wasn't sure. It sounded familiar enough.

'I'll be back when the tests are back,' Fran explained. 'In the meantime, we'll set up a saline drip as you seem a little dehydrated. There's a vending machine down the corridor if you'd like anything to eat or drink whilst you're waiting.' Cruel as it was, it was worth it to see Emily shake her head, as if the very thought of food was too heinous to be true.

'You know she's anorexic, right?' Robyn began before Fran had taken more than few steps away from the cubicle. The nurse tailed her, apparently having forgotten the instructions for a full blood count. 'That won't show up on a test.'

'I'd still like you to do them.'

'But-'

'When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it!' Fran surprised herself as well as the staff around her with the force behind her reply, but she was done. The pain in her back and stomach had only increased as the day had gone on, and knowing the reason why didn't help. Taking her irritations out upon Robyn was a marginally better way of dealing with it than letting everybody know the situation she was in. 'Now can you please do the tests?'

Robyn stood, gaping for a second, before throwing her a disgusted look and storming away. Fran breathed out slowly, pleased that the latest cramp (she refused to call it anything else) had passed without her screaming.

'Francesca.'

She opened her eyes to see Tess. 'Yes?'

'Is everything alright?'

She wondered if it was so obvious, whether she had a neon sign above her head. Shaking her head, she said, 'Yes. All fine.'

And everything was fine, as long as she kept busy and pushed anything else to the back of her mind. These things could take hours, days, it was no reason for her to break off from the job at hand today. Ash was off sick and Connie tied up in meetings all day; they needed her here. The patients she treated and set off home in the hour that followed certainly needed her. And perhaps, just maybe, that skeletal girl needed her too.

Mr Edison was, on first glance, the picture perfect match to Mrs Edison: crisp suit, silk tie, salt-and-pepper hair. Fran could imagine what life was like in their house, everything organised to the nth degree, even Emily. To her surprise, he lit up in a way Mrs Edison hadn't when he saw their daughter, and Emily responded in kind.

'So, we've got your test results back,' Fran began, trying to gauge his reaction. 'Your iron levels are a little low. We can prescribe you some supplements for that. I see you've been visiting your GP.'

Emily nodded.

'The notes say your weight has been decreasing quite steadily over time. Has there been any reason given for this?'

A shrug.

Then Mr Edison spoke. 'Could I have a word outside, Doctor Hardy?'

Fran raised her eyebrow but nodded. This was a change from her having to practically force the mother to listen to her. 'We'll be right back, Emily.'

Outside the cubicle, Mr Edison led with, 'I think we both know what's going on, Doctor Hardy.'

Fran studied him, saw the exhaustion around his eyes, the deepened lines across his forehead. 'Emily does seem to be thinner than the last time we saw her here,' she said carefully.

'Well she barely eats and exercises every opportunity she gets, so that's not surprising.' Biting his tongue, the man added, 'Sorry. This isn't your fault.' Glancing back towards where his daughter lay, he said, 'Trying to get Emily to understand that this isn't normal hasn't been easy.'

'I'm sure.' She willed herself not to ask and couldn't resist. 'How does Mrs Edison feel about this?'

The reply was a long time coming and clearly caused him some pain. 'She's finding it difficult to accept too.' Then, more briskly, more like the lawyer Fran had expected, he said, 'Look, it's obvious she's unwell. The question is, what can we do about it?'

Fran had always liked the direct approach. 'What support have you been offered so far?'

'Some counselling. Behaviour therapy.' He shrugged vaguely. 'She's a good kid, she goes along, she does what's asked of her but… well, they're not there on a Sunday afternoon when she's pushing food around her plate and sneaking it to the dog when she thinks we're not looking.'

'We can contact the psych team, get her assessed immediately. We did offer that the last time Emily was admitted.'

'And what does that involve?'

'They'll assess her condition. Determine whether she's a high-risk case, whether she's in immediate danger.'

'And then?'

'In some circumstances, we can admit patients directly to the psych ward.'

Mr Edison gave a weary smile. 'Presumably Emily would have to comply with that?'

'Not necessarily.' Fran bit her lip before continuing. 'In certain situations, we can arrange for patients to stay in without their consent.'

'Section two of the Mental Health Act?' Mr Edison gave a sheepish smile. 'I've had some dealings with it through my job.' He pulled a face. 'Is it that bad?'

'Emily has presented at the ED twice in a relatively short space of time with similar symptoms. In that time, she's lost a significant amount of weight and her iron levels have dropped. There isn't any evidence of any further damage to her organs yet, but…'

'So, basically, yes.' Mr Edison let out a long sigh. After a short pause, he said, 'Can I have a minute to talk to her?'

'Of course.' Fran nodded. 'I'll be back soon.'

* * *

Thinking back to last summer, Max was unable to avoid shaking his head at the naïve fool he'd been. Back then, he'd believed that he'd get over Zoe Hanna sooner or later, that things would get better one day and he'd move on. Instead, he wasn't sure things had ever been worse, and whilst he couldn't pin it all upon Zoe, he knew for certain that he wouldn't have looked twice at Francesca Hardy if she'd been around. And if he hadn't looked at Doctor Hardy… there was so much that might be different.

Given all of that, he thought he was probably the wrong person to be sitting alongside Tiffany today. All of the platitudes people trotted out when relationships imploded were so untrue that they tasted sour on his lips. He couldn't convince her that things would soon be looking up or that time was a great healer. He was living proof that, sometimes, the end of a relationship was the end of much more.

Still, Iain seemed to think he'd make a difference: 'Just have a chat with her. She's been a right misery the past couple of days and nothing I say makes any difference.'

Max had tried. He'd trotted out his best anecdotes, told her the funniest jokes he knew. Short of turning cartwheels or turning on the Walker charm for real, he didn't know what else he could do to try to lift her spirits. To say she was low was an understatement; he thought there were probably snakes' bellies which were higher than she was at present. And now his break was coming to an end and he was leaving her no more cheered than she had been before.

So he tried the only thing he really knew was true: 'You know he's not worth this, don't you?'

Tiffany jerked her head up from where she was staring at the floor. 'What?'

The surprise was justified; they'd been talking about anything but Ethan for the past twenty minutes.

'Ethan. He's not worth this.'

'When did we start talking about Ethan?' Tiffany shook her head. 'There's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine.'

'You've just chain smoked four cigarettes.'

'It's been a busy day.' When he continued to look at her, Tiffany lost her cool. 'Honestly, this is nothing to do with Ethan. We spent some time together, we had fun, we broke up, it's done. No big deal. Stop going on about it. Anyway,' she continued, 'you're hardly Mr Cheerful yourself. What's your problem?'

He knew she was right but he really didn't want to go into it right now. 'We were talking about you.'

'You were. I wasn't talking about anything.'

They slumped into sulky unsatisfying silence. This was familiar, Max thought, remembering the silences that had permeated through his house growing up. Five teenagers under one roof could conjure up a whole lot of grumpy ill-feeling. Why he'd felt the need to adopt yet another sister into his life, he didn't know.

'You know he won't take my calls?' She spoke to the floor. 'He won't even answer them.'

Privately, Max didn't know if he could blame Ethan. Tiffany's actions had been so destructive, so wrong, that Max himself had struggled to feel much sympathy. Even from the little he knew of Ethan, he knew that the doctor liked his privacy, liked to keep his private life just that. It was clearly a family trait. By acting out so publically, so openly, Tiffany had done more than just hurt him; she'd smothered his pride too. That was a harder thing to fix than mere feelings. Max doubted that phone would be picked up any time soon.

'How about at work?' he asked now.

'Because that went so well the last time.' Tiffany snorted before taking another drag on what might be her fifth cigarette. 'I don't blame him, anyway. I deserve it.'

Max stayed quiet. Because, yes, to some extent, she did. What she didn't deserve was having everybody know all about it. Nor did she deserve to be feeling this awful about it all. Truthfully, he wouldn't have expected her to feel this much, but there it was: it seemed Tiffany Gray would never stop surprising people.

'So she's getting huge.'

Max jerked himself back to the moment to see what Tiffany was looking at. Or, more precisely, who. Francesca was looking big, uncomfortably so, the bump hardly seeming able to be supported by her usually slight frame. He imagined she was counting down the days by now, eyeing up her skinny jeans, waiting for the day to come when this could all be over. He hadn't thought about her properly for weeks, hadn't allowed himself to. She'd just been Doctor Hardy, a pregnant colleague, nothing to see here. And mostly, it worked. Soon enough, anything that had linked them would be gone, far away. Their baby. His child. It was probably for the best anyway. Judging by this conversation, Max was not father-material; he wasn't even able to cheer up a friend.

Ignoring things wasn't as easy when Tiffany was around though, especially not if it deflected unwanted attention away from herself. 'You never did tell me who the father is.'

'Why would I know?' He hoped he sounded bemused more than cagey. There was certainly no reason for anyone to suspect him, least of all Tiffany; he doubted he'd ever exchanged more than a word with Francesca in the paramedic's presence.

'Robyn said you did.'

'You sure she didn't say Honey?' he joked, before wondering if the barista really did know. There was little that she didn't.

'So who is it? I'm guessing someone we know.'

Max hesitated. It would be a relief for somebody else to know after all of this time. Granted, Tiffany wasn't the best choice of confidante given her exhibition at the pub a last week, but he could pick worse. It wasn't as if she was Miss Popularity at the moment anyway. He could tell her.

He opened his mouth.

'Tiff?' Iain called across the car park. 'We've got a shout. You ready?'

'You totally need to hold that thought,' Tiffany instructed Max, standing up, something approaching a smile on her face for the first time. 'When I get back, you are telling me that name.'

Max watched her go, closing his mouth again, grateful for the interruption. Telling somebody else made it real, and he'd been doing his best to deny that for months. Only a few more weeks to go. He could do that.

* * *

Replacing the receiver, Fran breathed through the latest wave of pain before organising her thoughts which were becoming ever more scattered. There was a bed available for Emily Edison on the psych ward, but it wouldn't stay like that forever. Things were ever-changing and if she was to take advantage of it, some decisions would need to be made, quickly. She needed to do something.

Emily certainly looked better than she had when she'd been brought in. Mrs Green had returned to school – or, actually, possibly home, Fran mused, looking at her watch and wondering how so many hours had passed – and in her place was Mrs Edison, looking almost as frustrated as she had the last time her daughter had been here.

'This is ridiculous, just waiting around here,' she was saying as Fran rejoined them in cubicles. 'There's nothing wrong with her now.'

'Why don't we just let the doctors decide that?' her husband advised, before greeting Fran with a look of relief. 'Here's Doctor Hardy now.'

'Can we go home now?' Mrs Edison demanded. 'There's really no need for us to be here. Emily's feeling much better, aren't you?'

Emily nodded, glancing between mum and dad as if unsure who she was supposed to be believing. She did have more colour in her cheeks and didn't look quite so thin somehow. It didn't mean that her collarbone had stopped protruding or that she wasn't still dangerously malnourished. It was amazing what a few hours on a drip could do.

Fran considered her words carefully. 'I've been talking to some colleagues about what might be the best route forwards for Emily.'

'The tests were all clear, weren't they?' Mrs Edison interrupted.

'Her iron levels were low-'

'But some tablets will sort that out.'

Fran fought against screaming _no, no a few tables won't sort this out_. This was a mother's fear talking, a reluctance to accept that her daughter was really properly sick because to do so might reflect upon her parenting. In some strange way, she could see Mrs Edison's logic.

'It's the root cause of Emily's anaemia that concerns us,' she explained slowly. Focusing on the patient herself now, she said, 'We think there might be some underlying causes that we could perhaps help you with. There's a bed available on our psychiatric ward if you-'

'Psychiatric ward?' Mrs Edison exclaimed. 'But Emily's not mentally _ill._ Are you? Tell the doctor, Emily.'

'Diane,' Mr Edison interjected. 'Maybe we should let the doctor speak.'

'But she's not! You can't tell me you agree with her? She's just going through a phase.'

'I'm just saying… perhaps we should take some advice.'

'This is ludicrous though, there's nothing wrong with Emily.'

'She's in hospital, I'd say that's wrong.'

Fran spoke up before the conversation could descend any further. 'Perhaps I could talk to Emily in private for a moment.'

Both Mr and Mrs Edison looked at her then, suspicion on their faces.

'She's just a kid,' Mrs Edison protested. 'She needs her parents here.'

'By our records, she's sixteen,' Fran informed her. 'That makes her legally able to make her own medical decisions.' She looked again at the girl, and wondered whether that would make the desired outcome more or less likely.

'We should give her a minute,' Mr Edison decided. 'We'll… be right back, Emily, okay?'

Emily nodded and fell to studying her chewed and nibbled nails.

Fran weighed her words for a long time. She wasn't usually good at this sort of thing. Usually, that didn't bother her so much, but she wanted to get this right. It somehow seemed to mean a whole lot more than ever before.

Finally, she said, 'Emily-' before being swiftly interrupted.

'Can I really make the choice?' The girl looked brighter than Fran had seen her so far.

'You are sixteen.' She nodded. 'You are legally medically emancipated.'

Emily watched her carefully, assessing the situation. 'So… if I say no, I don't want to go to the…' She trailed off and swallowed hard, as if she couldn't even say the words. 'Then you can't make me?'

'Yes.' Then, unwilling ever to lie, Fran added, 'At least… on the whole.' When Emily frowned, she clarified, 'If it was felt that you were… incapable – for whatever reason – of making informed responsible decisions about your health, there is a way of us enforcing a stay in hospital for treatment.'

'You can lock me up?'

'It's not like that.' Fran struggled to find the right words that might get through to somebody like Emily, somebody who wanted control and to make her own choices. The last thing Fran wanted was to take those choices away from her. So she spoke to her as she'd want to be spoken to: simply. 'Emily, we want to help you. I can get you a bed on a ward with fantastic doctors who can help you learn how to gain control. You like making decisions, don't you?'

Emily nodded slowly. 'My mum doesn't usually let me make many.'

To her surprise, Fran felt her mouth twitching into a small smile. 'Sounds like my dad.' Then, wondering why she'd suddenly become so unprofessional, she continued with, 'This is your choice, Emily. You can decide.'

'And… no one can make me?'

Fran looked the teenager up and down. She was thin, dangerously so, but she wasn't stupid. She knew exactly what she was doing. Fran would lay money on a court of law finding her perfectly capable of making her own decisions, dangerous as they might be. Issuing a section would probably be more complicated than she'd originally outlined to Mr Edison.

'Nobody can make you,' she agreed.

The department around them suddenly seemed to fade away, as everything came down to this decision in this small curtained off area. Fran found herself crossing her fingers, as if such an arbitrary action could have any impact upon a person's freewill. Embarrassed, she uncrossed them again, even as she continued to look at the girl, hoping that there was still enough of Emily left to fight back.

'Okay.'

Fran raised her eyebrows. 'Okay?'

'I'll… I'll stay here. But not for good, I can… leave?'

Fran hoped so, but decided not to promise anything. 'You'd be better off asking the doctors on the ward that. I'll get the paperwork ready.' She made to leave the cubicle.

'Doctor Hardy?'

Fran paused and look at her.

'Could you… could you tell my parents?'

Again, that traitorous smile as she recognised something of herself in the girl in the bed. 'I can do that.'

Anything to distract her from her own problems right now.

* * *

Max hovered nearby as the nurse swapped drip stands and pushed the ED's property back towards him. 'I've never known you lot care so much about equipment before,' she said, only half-jokingly. 'Mrs Beauchamp must be running a tight ship.'

'Like a vice,' Max confirmed with a grin, taking what was offered to him.

'Will you be wanting the gown as well?'

An ill-judged joke, Max thought, as the girl clutched at the material which only just covered her dignity. 'She's joking,' he assured her, wondering whether it wasn't time that some nurses had training on appropriate humour. 'You keep that as long as you want.'

Only marginally abashed by the faux pas, the nurse gave Emily's notes a cursory glance. 'I'll check with the doctor if we're giving you any medication.' She strutted away, filled with self-importance, proof if ever Max needed it that all kinds of people were attracted to the nursing profession.

'She fancies you.'

He glanced across at the girl in the bed. 'You think?'

She nodded.

'Sounds like you're in safe hands then,' he said with a wink as he leaned against the wheelchair. 'People with excellent taste up on this ward.'

She gave him a thin smile and then fell to fiddling with the bedclothes. As dismissals went, it was at least subtle. Max prepared himself to go.

'They're talking about me in there, aren't they?'

He followed her gaze. The blinds on the small office had been drawn closed after her parents and Francesca had gone inside but what you couldn't see was always more frightening than what you could. He could guess what sort imaginings were passing through the girl's mind.

'They just want what's best for you,' he said, as kindly as he could because she was only just sixteen. Somewhere in amongst all of this, everybody had forgotten that.

'Why does that never involve talking to me?'

Giving her a smile, Max said, 'Do you want talking to or listening to?'

He was rewarded with a grudging smile of her.

'And if they did listen to you, what would you say?'

'That I'm not crazy.' The speed of her answer suggested she'd been waiting for this opportunity for a while.

'Nobody thinks you're crazy.'

'They've put me on a psychiatric ward.'

A fair point. 'It's just a name,' he insisted. 'It's just saying you need some help. Everybody needs help sometimes.'

'Can't I have that at home?'

Realisation dawning, he sat down in the wheelchair in lieu of anywhere else to sit. 'Is this your first time in hospital?'

She nodded, seeming much younger than her years. He hesitated before saying anything more; he hadn't spoken about this for years and wasn't sure how to start. Outside of the family, no one knew about this, and he had a strange feeling he shouldn't be saying anything at all. Still, Emily was hardly going to be telling anyone about this.

'My sister spent some time in hospital when she was about your age.'

Emily lifted her gaze from the sheets. 'What was wrong with her?'

Bottling it, he simply said, 'She was ill.' Emily lost interest. 'But,' he added hastily, 'she spent some time in hospital, and she got better.' As she reluctantly looked at him, he concluded, 'Just like you will.'

For the first time, he saw her smile, and it was lovely. It wasn't making everything better, and it certainly wasn't fixing her up. But it was something. He'd made a difference. It hadn't felt like he'd done much of that recently.

'Doctor Hardy's nice.'

'Is she?' Too late, Max realised his mistake and in hastening to correct it, he knew he only drew further attention to what he'd really said. 'I mean, she is.'

'She listens to me.'

He just about managed to bite back the retort to that one. 'Well, that's good.' Then, unable to deny it, he concluded, 'She's a good doctor. If she thinks this will help you, I'd listen to her.' He wished Emily knew how much that endorsement meant, coming from him.

The office door opened and Mr and Mrs Edison spilled out, followed by Francesca and the psych doctor. The parents looked tired, fake smiles pasted onto their faces as they approached their daughter. Francesca looked just as tired, her usually immaculate make-up long gone by this stage of the day. She was cradling her bump again, unconsciously, as if it was the only logical place for her hand to be. Max couldn't help wondering if that was a natural reflex, and if it was, how she could be so disinterested in what lay beneath.

'I've got to get back downstairs,' she said now, partly to the psych doctor, partly to Mr and Mr Edison, but mostly to Emily. 'I hope everything works out.' Then, a rare piece of humour: 'Hopefully we won't be seeing you again.'

'Thank you for everything,' Mr Edison said, holding out his hand to shake Francesca's. 'You've been wonderful.'

'I was… just doing my job.' Max could have sworn he saw a faint flush of pink flash across Francesca's cheeks as she reluctantly shook hands. 'It was nothing.'

'It meant a lot to us,' Mr Edison insisted, holding onto her hand a bit longer. 'We're very grateful. Aren't we, Em?'

On cue, the girl nodded. 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome.' Francesca nodded at her. 'I have to go.'

Max realised everybody was suddenly looking at him and scrambled out of the wheelchair. 'I should be going too. Thanks for the…' He waved vaguely at the drip stand, felt Francesca's irritation and hastened to leave, pushing wheelchair and drip stand. Suffice to say, the good Doctor Hardy did not offer to help him with that.

It was only as they stepped into the lift that he realised his mistake. He should have beat a retreat before now instead of hanging around chatting. Just like his maths teacher had always said, talking never did anybody any favours. Now, because he had wasted time, he had to suffer a lift ride with Francesca Hardy. This wasn't going to be awkward at all.

Concentrate on his job, that's what he'd do. There was plenty of mischief a wheelchair and a drip stand could get up to if they weren't watched closely in a lift. Press the button, hold his nerve, and within a minute he'd be free.

Francesca seemed equally as keen to get this over with. Standing as far away from him as she physically could, she stared into space. Somehow, he doubted she was revelling in the thanks she'd just received. Emily's was the sort of case that nobody came away from feeling good about. Thinking back, Francesca seemed to get a lot of those cases, the ones where the outcome was several stages away, where Francesca's diagnosis was just the beginning of a long journey to fitness. The lack of resolution would drive him crazy; perhaps he should be more understanding.

The numbered lights counted down the floors. They were almost there. He could almost breathe again.

Then there was a loud thud and the drip stand fell over.

'What was that?' he asked, as if Francesca would know. Even as he knew it was pointless, he hit the doors and then every button on the console. 'Have we stopped?' Glancing at the display, he answered his own question. 'We've stopped.'

'Why aren't the doors opening?'

He stabbed at the button hopelessly. 'Why is nothing happening? Are we trapped?' A trickle of sweat coursed its way down his back. 'We're trapped,' he concluded.

'Have you pressed the alarm?'

That would have been the logical thing to do, so, of course, he hadn't. With a tut, Francesca did it for him. The tinny sound of a ringing phone filled the space for a few seconds before it connected.

'Hello? Bianca speaking, can I help you?'

'We're in the lift,' Francesca explained, almost sounding bored. 'It's stopped.'

'Which lift?'

That stumped her. There was an expression Max didn't see very often as she looked at him, shrugging. It wasn't often his expertise came in handy.

'East wing. Number two.'

There was the sound of some tapping on a keyboard. 'How long have you been stationary?'

'Not long.'

More tapping. 'Okay. I'll see if I can find out what the problem is. Bear with me.'

'Hold on!' Max exclaimed, even as the line went dead. 'Did she just hang up on us? Can she do that? What are we supposed to do now?'

Leaning back against the lift wall, Francesca shrugged. 'Wait.'

He swallowed hard. He didn't know why that sounded so unappealing.

* * *

The ache in Fran's back had been getting gradually worse all day. She hoped whatever was holding this lift up was sorted soon because the wheelchair was looking increasingly attractive. Actually, the floor was looking attractive by now. Gritting her teeth, she hoped that the operator wouldn't be long.

When she came back on the line, it was clear Fran wasn't the only one hoping for a miracle.

'Hi? Yeah, we're still here!' Max's faux joviality wasn't fooling Fran; he was way more scared than he was willing to admit. 'Any idea when we'll… not be here anymore?'

'We've contacted the engineer and he'll be with you as soon as possible.'

'Is there no way he can get here faster?'

'He's doing his best. Stay calm, you're perfectly safe. I'll see if I can get a better time estimate for you.' The line went dead.

Max let out the sort of wail that Fran usually associated with an animal in the zoo, before kicking the wall.

'That'll help.' Sarcasm being her usual defence mechanism, she was unable to control herself any longer. It was at least taking her mind off of the cramping pain which had struck up in her stomach and across her back. Truthfully, it was less the pain and more what the pain represented that was causing her to quietly panic, and addressing Max's much more overt distress was one way of distracting herself. 'Did it make you feel better?'

Max threw her a distinctly withering look, even underneath his slightly sweaty panic. 'This is ridiculous. We're in a hospital, for God's sake! What if we had some sort of medical emergency?'

Fran tried not to laugh, mainly because she wasn't sure it wouldn't come out as a cry.

'What other sort of job can the engineer have to do? Isn't a stuck lift quite a high priority?'

Fran ignored him. She'd broken out in a cold sweat herself. The pain had faded away again, just as it had been doing for the past couple of hours. A wave of nausea washed over her and she swallowed hard. Being sick was not going to help this situation at all.

After what seemed forever, the line crackled into life again. 'Are you still there?'

Despite everything, Fran felt her mouth crease into a small smile as Max gave an exasperated yelp. 'Yes, we're still here!'

'I've spoken with the engineer and he says he can get to you within the next hour.'

'The next hour!' Max exclaimed, and Fran was unable to ignore the wave of fear which swept over her at that moment. 'You're really going to leave us here for an hour?'

'He'll hopefully be with you sooner.'

'Hopefully?'

'We're doing our best. I'll speak to you again shortly.'

Fran didn't think she'd ever heard such a final crackle of a line. The nausea rose up again and she shivered despite the intense heat in the little space they had. Feeling light-headed, she gave into the urge to slide down the wall, wondering if lying down was an option. She wondered where all her dignity had gone to in the past half an hour.

She tuned back into what was going on around her as the clang of metal signalled that Max had renewed his attack upon the lift, accompanied with several expletives. As his kicks ricocheted around the box, it reverberated down her spine until she could ignore it, and everything else, no longer.

'Max! Stop!' Surprised at the force of her words, she swallowed hard again. 'Just… stop. And… call them back.'

'You heard them, an hour! They're not going to change their minds!' Max seemed set to launch into his rant again so Fran quickly interrupted.

'I think I've been in labour for the past couple of hours.' Reluctantly, she dragged her eyes up from the floor to meet his, watching as the colour drained from his face. 'Maybe tell them that.'

To his credit, Max did as he was told without so much as a whimper or a yelp. The voice on the other end of the line sounded irritated, harassed even, until he spat out what he was trying to say.

'I'll… I'll get someone for you,' was all the voice said before hanging up even more abruptly than before.

Fran didn't think she'd ever felt quite so alone before.

'You… you _think_ you're in labour?' Max stammered into the silence. 'What does that mean?'

'It means I think I'm in labour. I don't know, do I? I'm… having contractions and… stuff.' She hoped Max was as oblivious as she'd always expected him to be about the intensely unglamorous parts of pregnancy and childbirth.

'For a couple of _hours_?'

She nodded a little miserably and shame-facedly. A couple, a few: who was counting?

'But… why-?'

The line crackled into life again. 'Hello?'

'Yes?' Max all but shouted.

'We've got the maternity ward on stand-by. How long has she been in labour?'

'A couple of hours,' Max spat out, seemingly disgusted, and Fran could appreciate that.

'Is it full labour?'

'Is it what?

'Full labour.'

Max looked at Fran, completely lost.

'I don't think so,' she said in a small voice, hating dealing in these conditionals and uncertainties. She liked definites and absolutes. It was why she liked medicine so much.

Max's voice fairly dripped with sarcasm as he passed the message on: 'She doesn't think so.'

'I'll call the engineer and see if he can get to you sooner. In the meantime, keep her calm. If the contractions go under four minutes, call us back.' The line went dead again.

Max turned to her with frightened eyes. 'So… so what now?'

Fran frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Like… what happens now?' Max gestured vaguely towards her, specifically her stomach. 'Is it…?'

'Is it what?' she snapped.

'I don't know! I don't know how these things work!'

'Neither do I! It's not like I've done this before!'

'But you're a doctor!'

'I'm not an obstetrician! I'm an ED doctor and I'm in labour in a lift and I'm scared and you standing there staring at me is not helping, so just… sit down or something.' She thumped the floor next to her, feeling the need to take her fear and frustration out upon something; maybe Max was onto something with that.

Carefully, gingerly, Max lowered himself to the floor beside her. He shifted awkwardly in the small space next to her, the wheelchair and the drip stand, adjusting himself so he wasn't quite brushing up against her. Even so, she could practically feel his heart hammering faster and she momentarily felt some pity for him as he said, 'Sorry.'

Sighing heavily, she brushed her sweaty fringe out of her eyes. 'No, I'm sorry. I'm… being a bitch and it isn't necessary. This isn't your fault.' To her surprise, she almost giggled as he gave her a pointed sidelong look. 'Well, the lift isn't anyway.'

'It's alright. You've probably got some entitlement to be a bitch.'

'Really?'

'You're about to push a human out of you, so yeah. What?' he asked as she was unable to curb her giggles this time.

'Nothing, I've just not heard anybody refer to it quite like that before. It's a bit different from "the miracle of childbirth".'

'My mum always said I had a way with words.' Max wiggled his eyebrows cheerfully and, for a moment, it was nine months ago and they were finishing each other's sentences and it was all delightfully fuzzy.

'You said you were scared.' And they were back in the lift again.

Fran drew Max's attention to that particular point with a vague hand gesture. 'Well, yeah. Is that so weird?'

'No, I just…' Max rubbed his ear self-consciously. 'I didn't think Doctor Hardy got scared.'

'I've never had to push a human out of me before.' Fran found she sort of liked the sound of those words coming out of her mouth. They were woefully un-scientific, but she didn't think she'd ever heard anything as accurate in describing what was going to happen in the next few hours.

Max smiled as his words were passed back to him before looking up at the ceiling. 'And in a lift.'

'Hopefully not!' Fran felt her own heart jump as the worst-case scenario was spoken aloud. 'That's definitely not part of the birth plan.'

'You've got a birth plan? Hang on, of course you've got a birth plan.'

'What does that mean?'

'Just… you've got a plan for everything, right?'

'Most women have a birth plan!' She had no idea why she was even defending herself, why she so disliked this idea of being organised. In her book, having plans and schedules had always been a good thing. How Max always managed to make it sound like something ugly was beyond her.

'And anyway,' she added now, a little sulkily and petulantly, 'it isn't like all my plans work out, is it?'

'You can't blame me for everything, Francesca, you know you can't.'

She knew and she also knew that she was being an unnecessary bitch again, but before she could anything to that effect, the tightening in her stomach and back took hold again, fiercer than before, and she was unable to completely ignore it. Starting slightly, she gave a small gasp.

'What is it?' Max was instantly tense and alert next to her. 'Is it another contraction?' She nodded in response. 'What should I do? Should I… hold your hand or something?'

'Do you want to?' she growled out

'I… don't know.'

'Well, when you make a decision, let me know.' Fran drew in a deep breath as the muscles in her abdomen relaxed again. Unconsciously, she rubbed her distended stomach gently, as though she could in some way coax the person inside of her into holding on for just a little bit longer. They'd been comfortable enough there for the past nine months – a few hours longer wouldn't exactly put them out.

'Is it over?' She became aware of Max, still tensed, beside her, poised to take action of some kind if he could ever decide what action that should be. For a moment, she considered leaving him dangling, just to see exactly how far his nerves could be stretched. This was the sort of test Max Walker had never had to come up against before. She was almost enjoying it.

Then she decided it was all far too much effort and nodded. She couldn't be completely sure, but she suspected that the gap between that and the last contraction had been slightly shorter than before, but she doubted that would give either of them much comfort if she spoke it aloud. Probably best to simply ignore it for now and continue trying to convince Baby Hardy that staying in there was the simplest solution for everybody.

'You do that a lot, you know.' She lifted her head up to see Max nodding towards where her hands were moving in circles over her stomach. 'I've seen you round the department, when you're not really thinking about it, and you're always doing that. I've seen women on TV doing it, but I didn't know they actually did it in real life.'

Embarrassed, she froze and snapped out the first response she could think of. 'Being pregnant isn't exactly comfortable.'

'I wasn't criticising you. I was just… saying.'

They fell into an awkward silence. It wasn't so unlike the past nine months in many ways; it wasn't as though they'd spoken much in that time. Fran bit her lip firmly as she thought back over all of those tiny little moments that she'd gone through on her own. She'd got this far. She didn't need Max's input now. All that needed to happen was for the engineer to get here so she could find somebody who knew what they were doing. They could last without talking for that long.

'I didn't ask. Is this… safe?' Max hurried to clarify his words. 'I mean, this isn't too soon, is it? The baby…'

'I'm thirty-seven weeks.'

'And that's… good?'

'It's normal. Ish.' Fran found herself rubbing her stomach again. 'First babies are usually late. But it's not dangerous. It's basically full-term.' She almost impressed herself with her knowledge. This was the sort of thing she was good at, learning facts and regurgitating them. It was a shame all of life couldn't be like that.'

'It? Haven't you found out what it is?'

'It's a baby.'

'Yeah, I know, I meant…'

'Max,' she interrupted him. 'I know what you mean. I was joking. Sorry.'

'Oh.'

'And, no. I didn't find out.' Her hands hesitated as she thought about all those opportunities she'd had along the way to find out and how much she'd had to fight against herself. It took her by surprise again now, that sudden urge to _know_ who exactly she'd spent the past thirty-seven weeks with. The biggest stranger in her life was somebody she'd come to know intimately well. That was weird.

'A surprise, then?'

Fran hesitated, before admitting something she hadn't even mentioned to Cal or Ethan. 'I'm not going to find out.'

'What?' Confusion was written all over Max's face and she could hardly blame him. It certainly sounded ridiculous. Fran hadn't realised quite how crazy it sounded until she'd voiced it aloud.

'The baby. I won't… I won't see it before they take it away.' She blinked twice, three times, determined not to let him see how that statement was affecting her.

'You're… you're going to just… hand it over without even seeing it?'

'Yes.' She glanced at him to see his reaction. 'What? Think it's cold?'

'A bit.'

She shrugged. 'There you go then.' It was designed to shut the conversation down.

'When did you make that decision?'

Exasperated, she sighed and raked her hair back away from her face. 'I don't know, they all blur into one after a bit.'

'You didn't have to make all the decisions.'

'Well who else was going to?' Fran demanded. 'I didn't see a whole long line of people queueing up to help me out, did you? Somebody needed to make decisions and I made them.'

'On your own?'

'On my own.' Fran nodded emphatically to punctuate her point. 'What?' she demanded, as Max got to his feet, shaking his head, as though he couldn't stand being close to her. That hurt more than she'd expected.

'You.'

'What about me?'

'I just… I don't get you. It's like… you're a nice person, you are, really. You were amazing with Emily. But… then you act like this and…' Max frowned, leaning back against the lift wall and folding his arms. 'I just don't get it.'

'I never asked you to.'

'I know. That's sort of the point.'

Before Fran could ask exactly what he meant by that, she felt the wave of pain surfacing again. For a few moments, she was able to forget the conversation, the lift, even that Max was there, as her entire body was taken over. When she came back down, Max was looking at her with some alarm.

'Was that one quicker than the last or did I imagine it?'

She exhaled slowly, closing her eyes, before nodding.

'Shit.'

'Yeah.'

Max slid down the wall facing her, as though the news had weakened his legs. Fran sort of knew how that felt. She shifted her weight awkwardly, her right leg having gone to sleep. It was a particularly pathetic manoeuvre. Recently, she'd wondered how on earth she'd gone from running half-marathons to being this lump of flesh that it seemed to take all of her effort to move.

'You alright?' The kindness in Max's voice took her by surprise.

'Yeah.'

'You're not going to… cry or anything?'

She almost laughed. 'No! When have you ever seen me cry?'

'Well, never, but then you've never-'

'- had to push a human out before,' she finished his sentence, and they shared a fleeting smile. 'Even so. I'm not going to cry.'

'Good. I'm rubbish with crying women.'

She had to admire him, staying light-hearted and cheerful, albeit with a more strained voice than usual. True, he couldn't run away screaming and she doubted he'd be here through choice. But he was making the best of a bad situation; she liked that.

'So what's in the plan?'

'What plan? The birth plan?'

'Birth plan. Life plan.' Max shrugged, before adding with a smile, 'God, I bet you have a five-year-plan, don't you?' When she didn't immediately reply beyond a slightly awkward smile, he laughed. 'Oh man! Seriously? I need to hear this.'

'It's not so weird,' she protested, even as she found his laughter strangely addictive. 'Plenty of people have life plans.'

'So what's in yours?'

Fran regarded him carefully, humour subsiding for a moment. This wasn't the sort of conversation she was used to having. Despite her protestations, she knew that having a life plan, even a five-year-plan, wasn't what her peers were doing. This was the age of spontaneity and flitting off to Thailand for wild impromptu beach parties. At least five people she'd known from school had done that as soon as their A Levels were over and, to her knowledge via some idle internet stalking, had never stopped since. It wasn't fashionable to have goals.

'You… you're not going to laugh, are you?' It was the voice of a very different Fran, one she could date precisely to autumn 2000 after her unsuccessful attempts to make friends at the swanky boarding school which Ethan had so thrived at. She hadn't seen that Fran since and didn't much like hearing from her now. That had been a particularly unpleasant time in her life that she didn't like to dwell on.

'Not unless you want to become a clown. Cause then laughing is sort of expected.'

She felt her mouth stretch into a smile. 'Okay. So… five years from now? I want to be a registrar.'

'Not consultant?' Max raised his eyebrows teasingly.

'The plan's supposed to be realistic.' Fran rolled her eyes. 'I mean, I want other things too.'

'Such as?'

'I want my own house. I want to have run a marathon. I want to be married.'

'In five years?'

'Give or take.' Fran nodded. 'What about it?'

'It sounds _exhausting_!' Max did indeed look worn out by the very thought of it. 'All of that in five years?'

'Well, what's in your plan?'

'I don't plan.'

'Everybody plans! Even not planning is sort of a plan. You must have some idea!'

Max gave a look she couldn't quite decipher. It wasn't a horrible look, it was just… strange. Then, 'Okay. So… I suppose, if we're talking an ideal world, my band get a record contract, we go interstellar and the next time you get a stuck in a lift with me is the greatest day of your life.'

'Cause that's really realistic.'

'Why is that less realistic than yours?'

'You can't really plan on getting a record contract.'

'Which is precisely why I don't make plans.' Max gave her a triumphant smile.

Fran rolled her eyes. 'You think you're so clever, don't you?'

'Two-two in Tourism proves it.' He gave her a mock salute just as she gave a gasp as another contraction set in. 'Not clever enough for this though. How long was that?'

'I'm not keeping count. Not long enough.' Fran grit her teeth and tried to put into practise some of the breathing exercises from the pregnancy book Ethan had pressed upon her. If these were supposed to make childbirth the miraculous experience she'd heard so much about, she thought she was doing them wrong.

As the pain subsided again, she looked up to see Max getting his phone out. 'You better not be filming this.'

'Don't be stupid. I'm timing them. Might as well know the worst.' He placed the phone down on the floor between them.

Fran was strangely touched by the move. Given how little she and Max had interacted over the past nine months, he was behaving much more reasonably than she had a right to expect from him. Amidst everything else that had happened, she'd forgotten that simple fact: he was a nice guy.

'So. Are we going to sit and watch it then?' she asked after a few seconds had passed and neither of them had been able to tear their eyes away from the numbers counting upwards on the screen.

'You got any better ideas?' Max raised his eyebrows challengingly, before saying, 'I've got a question for you.'

Fran let out a long breath. 'Think I'd rather watch the numbers.'

'No, come on. Until the next contraction, you can answer my questions…'

'That sounds so much fun!' She rolled her eyes.

'…And then after that, I'll answer yours.'

'Aren't we a bit old for truth or dare?'

'You have a better suggestion?' He waited approximately half a second before he launched into his first question, shifting into a cross-legged position as though this was one of the more riveting experiences of his life. 'Okay. So which brother is your favourite, Ethan or Caleb?'

She was unable to prevent herself from bursting out laughing. 'I can't answer that!'

'Why not? You must have a preference.'

'They're my brothers! You don't have a favourite!'

'Sure you do. Like, I much prefer Robyn to her sister Charlotte because Charlotte has this thing about my "career", but their sister Ashley is great. And all four of us don't like my brother Simon.'

'Why's that?'

'Because he's a prat. And it's not your turn for questions yet. So.' He leaned forward intently. 'Ethan or Caleb?'

Fran stared at him incredulously for several seconds, unable to believe that anybody would seriously ask her this question. She wondered if he even understood how complicated the question was, how strange their whole lives had been. It wasn't the sort of private information she expected either of her brothers dispensed on a regular basis; truthfully, she'd never really explained it in so many words to anybody. They were just Cal and Ethan, very different people who she had very different relationships with. It didn't simply boil down to an either-or situation.

And for the first time, she found she was admitting that things weren't entirely straightforward and neat in her life. 'It's not that simple. Seriously, it's not,' she added as he gave her a doubtful look. 'Ethan's my half-brother. His mum and my dad were married for about four years before… before my dad met my mum.' She choked on the last bit, and that surprised her. She knew the story about how her father had met her mother when they were working on the same ward, when the marriage to Ethan's mum had still very much been on. It had all happened before her time, of course, and was nothing to do with her. Certainly Ethan's mum never seemed to have held it against her, even allowing her to spend whole weekends staying with Ethan as kids. She didn't know why she was suddenly so bothered by it.

'And Cal?'

'I don't even know what Cal is.' It was something she'd never said out loud before, always using the easiest epithet: 'brother'. In all the ways that mattered, that was what Caleb was. 'He's Ethan's half-brother. But my dad… took an interest in him. Cal's own dad gave up on him when he was little. My dad treated him like his own.' It seemed important to stress what a good guy her dad really was; God knew, she forgot sometimes, and Cal forgot most of the time. She didn't want Max getting the wrong idea about their family.

'So…' Max said after a short pause. 'Ethan? Blood's thicker than water?'

Fran considered that option for a minute. It was certainly the sort of logical reasoning which she usually liked. And Ethan was a good brother. He'd always played nicely with her as a kid and been at the end of an e-mail when she needed help with her homework. They shared the same genes and the same lousy eyesight.

And yet… 'Ethan went to boarding school when he was eleven. I went too, when I was old enough, but… it didn't work out.' She didn't know why, but she found herself gazing down at her stomach, a sudden wave of protectiveness sweeping over her. Whoever this baby became, she hoped they'd never find themselves as she had at eleven, all alone, feeling as though nobody quite understood her. For all of Ethan's wonderful qualities as a brother, it hadn't been him who had saved her on that occasion.

'Cal got glandular fever that year, and his mum had this series of conferences that took her overseas, so he came to stay.' If Ethan's reluctance to help her settle in that dreadful term had been like a Siberian winter, Cal's presence in the house that spring had been a warm blanket. With their middle brother absent, there was no buffer between the siblings, and the five years between them had melted away as if it didn't exist. It was Caleb who had sat beside her when she told her parents she wouldn't, _couldn't_ , go back to Lannister House after Christmas, and Caleb who had met her off the bus every day for the first half term she'd attended Denton Hill Day School. They'd spent lazy Saturday mornings watching mindless television, and rainy Sunday afternoons playing chess. When Ethan came home at Easter, it had been strange, as though it had always only been the two of them. And when both of her brothers had left as term began again, Fran hadn't really known how to feel. Her words hardly sumed up what having Cal around had meant: 'We spent a lot of time together that year.'

'So, Caleb?'

She wrinkled her nose up. 'It's never really worked like that.'

Max seemed about to press further when she curled up her fingers as another contraction took hold. This time she was unable to prevent the pain showing itself on her face and she let out a small, choked groan as her vision blurred. When it cleared again, she looked to him for the verdict.

'Five minutes.' He held up the phone as evidence as he pulled a face.

Fran digested that briefly. That was definitely much shorter than previous gaps had been. Given that they were still trapped in this lift and had heard nothing from the engineer, that was pretty bad news.

She took a deep breath.

'So does that make it my turn?'

It took a second for Max's inevitable smile to spread across his face as he realised what she was saying. He leaned back against the wall again. 'Do your worst.'

She didn't know what her question would be until she asked it. 'Why are you a porter?' To her, it was an odd query, one she hadn't known she'd even been thinking about until she asked it. It sounded pretty innocuous to her, certainly nothing on the scale of asking her to choose between her brothers. She didn't think it could cause any offence.

Max's reaction spoke differently, as he rolled his eyes. 'This again?'

'I've never asked you it before.'

' _You_ haven't. It's all everybody else can talk about.'

'Well, it is a bit weird.' When he gave her an exasperated look, she said firmly, 'Well, it is! You just said, you've got a two-two – I mean, yeah, it's in Tourism-'

'And there's something wrong with that?'

'Come on, Max. It's… it's not a _real_ subject, is it?'

'You've never been on holiday?'

'Well, yeah, but-'

'Never had a guide on holiday?'

'Yes… But it's not like you need a degree for that, surely. And anyway,' she rolled on as he seemed about to argue back, 'it's not like you're doing any of those things, is it? So… why a porter?'

There was a hesitation before he replied, with a world-weary sigh and shrug of his shoulders. 'I don't know. I needed a job and it was there. I like it, it's… interesting. You get to meet a lot of people. It's not brain surgery or whatever, but it's okay. It's _useful_.' He gave her a sidelong glance. 'That's always a helpful word when my step-sister Charlotte asks about it.' He gave another sigh. 'I enjoy it. It might not be a career, but… it's a job.'

'And that's enough for you?'

'Isn't it for you?'

Fran suddenly wasn't sure what the question was. There were so many ways she could interpret his words, ways which would open up conversations she couldn't have. Right now, there was a tentative ease between them that there had never been before, and she liked it. She didn't want to do anything to disturb that balance.

'It's not your turn to ask the questions.'

He rewarded her with a grudging smile, and then another contraction took over. Max took a long look at his phone before getting to his feet.

'Okay, we're getting out of here,' he said, just as they heard a loud knock from outside the lift.

'Can you hear me?'

'Yeah! Yeah, mate, we're here!' Max hammered back. 'We can hear you. When are we getting out?'

There was an ominous pause. 'I've been looking at it and you seem to be trapped between floors.' Fran tried not to vomit at the very idea of that. 'It's a case of whether we should get you up or get you down.'

'Well, can you make that decision? Soon?' Max prompted.

Another hesitation. 'It might take some time.'

Fran winced as Max finally lost it.

'We don't have time! There's a baby being born in here, are you seriously letting that happen?'

'A what?' The engineer sounded horrified. 'Nobody said anything about a baby.'

'I swear to God, if I ever meet Bianca…' Max threatened, something Fran whole-heartedly agreed with. Then, back at the engineer, 'We need to get out.'

'I'm doing my best. I'll be back soon.'

'No, don't…' Max tailed off as they heard footsteps walking away. 'Go,' he finished sadly, before looking back at Fran. 'Sorry.'

Fran weighed up everything she could say or do right now. Then she opted for, 'It's your turn.'

* * *

Against all of Max's expectations, shooting the breeze with Francesca wasn't too bad. Of all the activities he might have expected her to thrive at, he would never have expected a childish game of Any Question to be the one. She'd revealed more than she'd likely wanted to, imparting knowledge such as her favourite flavour of crisps and her favourite breed of dog (ready salted and a Labrador because they had nice eyes), and certainly more than he'd have expected her to. It was, in many ways, not a bad way to spend an afternoon. It certainly beat taking soiled sheets to the laundry.

Delivering babies wasn't on his CV though. Francesca was making remarkably little out of the fact that her uterus was contracting increasingly regularly, so Max tried to follow her lead. Babies took forever; Charlotte had been in labour for over twelve hours with her first. They'd definitely get out of her before twelve hours. Yet he was reminded of what Francesca had first said: _past couple of hours_. What did that even mean?

He was on the verge of losing it when there was another bang on the lift. Francesca winced but Max was on his feet in seconds.

'Yes? We're here!' As if they had wandered off somewhere.

'There's a bit of a problem.' Of course. 'We're struggling to work out how to safely get you out.'

'Safely? Are we in danger?' Max would have blushed at his high-pitched tone if he wasn't entirely focused on being terrified.

'No!' The engineer was hasty to reassure him, almost too hasty for Max's liking. 'No, no, no, you're safe. We just might need to get a fire crew in.'

'How long will that take?'

'Well, you're not an emergency…'

At that, Max, exploded, a rare experience for him. 'What the… Have you heard anything I've said? There's a woman giving birth in here. To a baby, her _first_ baby and you're saying we're not an emergency?'

'I've passed on about the baby.'

'Good! You should have already known!' He refrained from kicking the lift door again only because of how much it had hurt the first time.

'They're sending a team down from maternity.'

'Oh, can they get us out then?' Max bit his tongue and tried not to be rude.

'They're going to check on you.' A blare of a mobile phone. 'Sorry, I have to take this.'

'Of course you do.' Max threw his hands up in the hair before covering his face with them. Thinking outside the box was his thing, but thinking outside this lift was becoming increasingly difficult. Especially when Francesca let out a small whimper of pain as another contraction took hold.

When she could breathe again, she asked, 'What do they mean, check on me?'

He shrugged, because he genuinely didn't know. How they'd be able to check on her through a closed door, he didn't really _want_ to know, because he had a horrible idea it might involve him.

'I'm sorry.'

He looked over at her, wondering if this was the raving of a deranged woman in labour. 'What?'

'For this.' She waved around vaguely. 'You didn't want to be involved in this.'

It was on the tip of his tongue to disagree, to say it was her who hadn't wanted him involved, that he'd never had a choice. But he knew that was only partially true: he'd had chances, so many chances, to say something. He wasn't incapable of having his voice heard. If he'd wanted to say something, he could have done. She wasn't the evil one here. And besides, he'd be a lesser man than even he thought if he picked a fight with someone in Francesca's position.

So he crouched down next to her and said, 'It's alright,' even managing a small smile. 'Better this than you being on your own.'

'Hello?' Another bang on the lift.

'If I never hear that word….' Francesca murmured as Max got to his feet.

'Hi, yeah. We're here.'

'My name's Laura, I'm a midwife. Is everything okay?'

Max resisted the urge to snort. 'As far as it can be.'

'And the mother?'

Francesca roused herself to say, 'I'm fine.'

'I understand you've been in labour for a few hours. When exactly do you think it started?'

And now it was the moment when Francesca looked at him guiltily before saying, 'Before I started my shift this morning.'

He stared at her in disbelief. That was hours ago. She'd been in labour for hours, treating who knew how many patients, dealing with relatives, organising scans and transfers and prescriptions, and all of the time her body had been preparing itself to make this the biggest day of her life. And she'd _ignored_ it.

If the midwife was shocked, she didn't let on. 'And how frequent are the contractions?'

'Every couple of minutes.'

'Do you know how many centimetres dilated you are?'

There was a question you didn't hear every day. Francesca flushed even redder as she said, 'No.'

'Do you feel like you want to push?'

This was getting worse by the second. Francesca lifted her eyes up from the floor and met his gaze before saying, 'I don't know.' Max was really starting to hate that phrase.

An extended hesitation outside the lift made him wonder if the midwife had lost interest, given up and left them. It would be just their luck.

'Does it feel like anything is pressing down?'

Reluctantly, Francesca said, 'Yes.'

'Okay. It sounds to me as if this baby is on its way.'

'I can't have it in a lift!' Francesca exclaimed, a sentiment Max whole-heartedly agreed with. 'We need to get out.'

'The fire crew are on their way, but it sounds to me as if this baby isn't giving you much of a choice.'

'I can't give birth in a lift!'

'I can talk you through it. Talk you both through it.'

'Both?' Max yelped.

'She may require some help.'

Francesca never needed help. Yet right now she seemed lost, marooned. Here she was, mere feet away from him, giving birth to his baby. He was in no way prepared for this, didn't even have a basic first aid certificate to help him out. But what choice did he have? He couldn't just ignore her.

He took a deep breath. 'Okay. So… tell me what to do.'

He followed the instructions blindly for the next few minutes, trying his best to channel the best doctors he knew and detach himself from the situation. Francesca seemed equally as resigned to her fate, naked from the waist down and a man she'd not even given the time of day for nine months looking at places he guessed she'd rather he didn't. She seemed to channel her rage into the whole process of labour that was now accelerating at an alarming pace.

Directions continued to pour in from Laura. 'You're doing really well. Now, I need to know if you can see the head yet.'

Francesca met his eye before giving him a brief nod. As apologetically as he could, he looked. And what he saw made his words momentarily stick in his throat, only able to let out a tiny squeak.

'I'm sorry?' Laura asked, and Francesca shot him an alarmed look.

'I can see the head,' he confirmed breathlessly, suddenly aware that he was grinning. 'I can see the head!'

'Okay, another big push, Francesca,' Laura instructed her. 'You're almost there.'

It felt like she'd been saying that forever, and yet she was right. All of these months of waiting and watching and seeing Francesca change: it all came down to this moment. It was almost here. The baby was almost here. He looked at Francesca with just one thought on his mind.

'Max,' Laura interrupted his thoughts. 'Have you got anything you can wrap the baby in?'

Blankets. Blankets and towels and hot water, they were what you were supposed to have when you delivered a baby. All Max had was a useless drip stand, a wheelchair and the clothes he was standing up in. It didn't leave him many alternatives.

'Lucky it's a chilly summer,' he remarked before pulling his porter's shirt off, leaving his own white t-shirt underneath.

'Okay, Francesca, one more big push,' Louise directed. 'Max, get ready to support the baby.'

The next few minutes passed in a blur, filled with Francesca's attempts to smother her agonised squeals and Max trying to comprehend what was happening. Before he could really wrap his head around it all, a different sound filled the lift: a crying baby.

'Well done!' Laura congratulated them. 'Is it a boy or a girl?'

Max felt unable to check anything, the weight of this suddenly very alive human in his hands. He stared down at it, its face contracted in fierce anger at being out in the world. Babies had always fascinated and terrified him, and never more so than now. It was all he could do not to drop the poor thing. Checking out whether he was holding a he or a she was impossible.

So Francesca, propped up on her elbows, said exhaustedly, 'It's a girl.'

A girl. Max looked again at his daughter. A girl.

'Wrap her up, Max, it's important to keep her warm. And then pass her to Francesca: mum's best.'

For a moment, he hesitated, looking at Francesca. She'd said she wanted nothing to do with the baby, that she wanted it taken away without her ever even knowing whether she had a son or a daughter out there in the world. This went against all of her plans.

'Do you…' he began, before noticing her outreached arms, the desperation on her face to hold her baby close to her. She'd forgotten the pain and the indignity and all of the decisions she'd made. She just wanted her daughter.

So he handed her over, missing the weight almost as soon as he did so, yet knowing this was the right thing. It _looked_ so right, baby nestled up against her, Francesca's face softer and kinder than he'd ever seen it before. It was the sort of image he wished he could lock away inside his head forever, a snapshot too important to entrust to ink and paper. His baby and the woman who'd given her to him.

'The fire crew are here,' Laura informed them suddenly, inevitably. 'You'll be out soon. Keep her warm.'

'They've got a funny sense of humour,' Max remarked softly, and was rewarded with a smile which he wished he could bottle and bring out on rainy days. 'And you've got some timing,' he murmured to the bundle in her arms.

'Never tardy,' Francesca said. 'It's the Hardy way.'

Outside the lift, they heard creaking and groaning and men working. 'We're almost there,' the engineer called, sounding terribly pleased with himself, as if he was the one who'd just pushed a human out himself. Max didn't care; it was almost over.

And then it was very much not. Francesca gave a start. 'Something's wrong.'

'With the baby?'

She shook her head, and then he didn't need her to explain as he saw the pool of blood surrounding her. Too much blood, surely, more blood than was necessary. Very real fear crossed her face and he saw her cling more tightly to the baby, as if that small person could rescue her from the situation she was in.

'Francesca's bleeding!' he called. 'We need help, quickly!' Acting entirely on instinct and a vague knowledge from the sort of documentaries Robyn liked to watch, he reached for the first piece of fabric that came to hand, Francesca's trousers, and tried to stem the flow of blood, all shyness and embarrassment gone now.

The lift gave an abrupt start, dropping downwards so that both of them cried out, before coming safely to rest, by which time Francesca's eyelids were dropping, the baby still clamped to her chest.

As the doors slid open, Max found himself pushed out the way as Francesca and the baby were descended upon. It was as it should be, he reasoned, watching as the baby was scooped into an incubator and Francesca lifted onto a waiting trolley, a trail of blood in her wake. The assembled staff used words like 'post-partum haemorrhage' which he could only vaguely follow. He found himself following blindly, going with her even as she faded into unconsciousness.

It was with her last burst of energy that she gripped his wrist, desperate and worried, as she managed to force out, 'Don't let them take her. I…' before she lapsed into unconsciousness.

Unsure where else to go, he kept pace with the trolley.

* * *

 _No preview this chapter as it's a two-parter. The lyrics/chapter title comes from a song called 'Officially Alive' by Brad Paisley ,who I've never heard of. I'm not a massive fan of the song, but it fit this chapter. This was actually my starting point for the story: Max and a woman in a lift, against their will, having had bad experiences with each other in the past. From there, I worked backwards to find out who she was and why they were at odds. Ethan and Cal were originally just going to be periphery characters but I needed something to fill out Fran's pregnancy storyline as they're BORING to write! Hence Tiffany. And Cal does have a storyline eventually - I'm labouring with that at the moment._


	20. Officially Alive (Part 2)

**Thanks for all the reviews so far. We're sort of moving into part 2 of the story now as these last 2 chapters were where I started when I began the story.**

* * *

 _It's a feeling you weren't ready for, when you're looking in eyes that look like yours._

Treating patients was, obviously, a major reason for going into medicine. There was a huge amount of pleasure in relieving pain or saving somebody's life, and Ethan could truthfully say that he made a difference every day at work. It was why he'd gone into emergency medicine rather than the more lucrative surgical routes which he knew his father would have preferred. True, surgeons performed life-saving operations and made much more permanent fixes than Ethan could manage. It was often frustrating to send a patient half-mended up to a ward and, even with all the best intentions, following their progress once they left the department was impossible. But then there were the times when what he did made a real difference, when he was there on the day somebody's life took a sudden right-angled turn and he was able to help. That was one of the most amazing feelings in the world.

Yet Ethan maintained a fondness for the more mundane aspects of his job. He knew his brother found the box-ticking and form-filling parts of the job not only tedious, but somehow beneath him, but Ethan found them relaxing, perhaps even a way of maintaining control over the sometimes chaotic days he lived through. It was a small time-out from the real world of the ED.

Which was why he didn't take too kindly to being interrupted right now. It had been the craziest morning so far, and these five minutes of routine paperwork had been the first chance he'd had to sit down. Noel's appearance was not helpful.

'Ethan?'

'Just a minute.' He crossed a T and realised too late that it was supposed to be an L. This was what happened when you got interrupted.

'I've just had a phone call.' Noel was undeterred.

'Yes, I'll be with you.'

'Ethan!' The receptionist spoke so urgently that he had to look up. 'It's Francesca. She's been taken into surgery.'

Ethan's body moved faster than his brain, standing up and sending papers flying. 'She… what? Where?'

'Upstairs. She's had the baby. But there's complications. Look, they wouldn't tell me much, they just wanted me to pass a message on.' Noel shrugged. 'You might want to get upstairs, mate.'

'Yes, of course.' Ethan nodded. 'I'll just find Connie and…'

'Cal?' Noel prompted, raising his eyebrows.

Ethan hesitated, and then hated himself for it. Cal and Fran shared nothing, no genes or blood or parents. Nothing but a lifetime of shared memories and a sort of love that neither of them would ever admit to. Of course Cal needed to know.

'Yes. And Cal.' Ethan nodded again. 'Thanks, Noel.'

Ethan had spent a lot of time in his life trying to shut his older brother up. It was a particularly nasty joke that it took his little sister being in surgery to render Cal speechless. The colour had drained from his face instantly. It fully justified Ethan's decision to tell him. It was clearly enough to convince Connie Beauchamp that they needed to get upstairs quickly, even if it left her three doctors short on what was turning into a particularly stressful day in the ED. She actually looked concerned by what Ethan was telling her, and as they turned to leave her office, she called him back with, 'Ethan? Let us know how she's doing.'

And then they were upstairs and things went insane.

* * *

Max knew that what Fran had said in the lift was true. He never made plans, and that was probably not the best way to live his life. Pushing thirty and he hadn't the slightest clue where he was going. But on days like today, plans were pointless anyway. How he'd got from a routine shift on the ED to sitting in obs and gynae covered in blood, he had no idea. A nurse had gone to fetch him some scrubs a while ago, but that was the least of her problems. Max could forgive her for forgetting.

He hadn't moved since they'd got onto the ward, sitting where he'd been directed to sit and staying quiet. He didn't know what else he could do. Not making decisions was, as Francesca had also correctly pointed out, basically his thing, so this was playing to all of his strengths. It didn't explain why he felt so torn though, half-needing to stay here, near to Francesca, half-drawn to wherever they'd put the baby. _His_ baby. He hadn't thought of it like that before, but there it was. There _she_ was. Whatever decision he made could only ever be wrong. So here he stayed.

There'd been a litany of questions as they'd made the dash from the lift, and with Francesca in no fit state to answer them, he'd done his best, which had turned out to be pretty poor. Yes, the baby was full term. No, she'd had no complications during the pregnancy, _as far as he knew_. No, there were no pre-existing medical conditions, _as far as he knew_. No, he wasn't her next-of-kin. No, he didn't know who was, but her brothers worked downstairs. Hopefully they'd have more of a clue, because it was only now that he realised how little he knew about her.

So it was with some relief that he looked up when a door crashed open at the end of the corridor, and Ethan and Cal both came in. At least now he might be able to find out what was going on, both with Francesca and the baby. It had been pretty lonely here up to now.

'What the hell have you done to her now?' Cal's words were almost entirely obscured, so angry was his tone.

'Me?' was all Max could reply, before Cal's hands were on him. 'Mate, calm down!'

'I'm not your mate!' Cal said, entirely needlessly, because that was clear. 'This is your fault!'

'Cal!' Ethan reached them and, with some difficulty, pulled his brother off of Max. 'This isn't helping!' He seemed more sympathetic, until he gave Max a decidedly cool look. 'What happened?'

'She… went into labour in the lift. It got stuck.' Max shrugged, unsure exactly what else he could say. They were the basic facts; everything else, the talks, the laughter, the honesty they'd shared, that didn't really have much place here. 'She had the baby and she… bled…' His stomach roiled at the memory of the pool of blood that had surrounded her within seconds. He hadn't known somebody could bleed that much and live. Maybe they couldn't. 'They took her straight into surgery. They… won't tell me anything.' It surprised him how much that bothered him.

There was a long silence, as Cal gave him a filthy look, and Ethan fiddled with his glasses. With perfect timing, the nurse re-appeared with the scrubs.

'Sorry that took so long,' she began, her steps slowing as the tension in the air became tangible and she looked between the three men. 'Is everything okay?'

'Francesca Hardy.' Cal erupted again. 'How is she?'

'Are you Ethan?' the nurse asked, Max all but forgotten. It was a taste of how he'd come to feel over the next few hours.

Cal's brow furrowed, even as Ethan said, 'I'm Ethan. How is she?' As the nurse hesitated, he added, 'It's fine to speak here.'

She nodded. 'Okay. She's in surgery. She's lost a lot of blood.' She ground to a halt.

'And?' Cal prompted.

She blinked. 'I'm not a doctor.'

'But we are!' Cal's eyes flashed angrily. 'Is she going to die?'

Max felt a shiver run down his spine. The words were so prosaic, so very Cal, that he shouldn't have been shocked. Death was a sad reality of life in a hospital; he'd witnessed it enough himself in the ED. But when it was connected with somebody he knew, _Francesca_ : that was something else entirely.

'Cal!' Ethan snapped at his brother. 'Thanks,' he said, turning back to the nurse. 'Is there somewhere we can wait?'

'Of course.' The nurse nodded. 'Come this way.'

Then they were walking away, the two brothers and the nurse, the people who mattered, and Max was still standing, holding the scrubs he'd been given, alone. It felt like forever until he found his voice to ask the question nobody else had asked.

'What about the baby?' They all turned to look at him, fury still in Cal's eyes, but Max was undeterred. It suddenly seemed like the most important question in the world. 'How's the baby?'

The nurse looked to Ethan, understandably so. Max had hung around the ward like he had nowhere better to be, and she'd been kind to him so far. But he was a stranger with seemingly no connection to this situation. It was more than her job was worth to disclose confidential information.

It took Ethan a few seconds to reply, his face betraying the fact that he still wasn't comfortable with what he was saying. 'He's the father.'

Realisation dawned on the nurse's face. 'Oh, right. She's doing well.' A smile crossed her face for the first time, which Max found himself returning as one knot unravelled in his stomach. 'She's in the nursery at the moment. We've popped her in an incubator for now, but you can go and see her whenever you like.' Then she glanced at Ethan again. 'If that's okay, of course.'

Ethan's eyes flickered to meet Max's. There was a long pause. Then, 'Yeah. Of course it's alright.'

Silently, Max sent him thanks, unable to believe how much the grudgingly given permission meant to him. They walked away from him, no more words exchanged. He was hit all over again by the isolation which had surrounded him for the past few hours. He wasn't used to feeling quite so alone. It was that loneliness which motivated his feet, propelling him away from the terrifying situations all around him, and towards the one person he knew would hold his hand.

'Where the hell have you been?' It wasn't quite the greeting Max had been hoping for, as he walked back into the department and his step-sister snarled at him. 'Tess is going to kill you when she sees you, you've been gone for hours!' Before he could say anything, her eyes darted over his clothes. 'Why are you wearing those?' And then, as she looked at his face again, things finally went in Max's favour, her voice softening. 'What's happened?'

'Francesca's had the baby.'

'Oh my God! Well… is it okay? What is it?' Robyn looked around the department, suddenly aware how loudly she was talking and dropping to a more hushed tone. 'Do Cal and Ethan know?'

He nodded, suddenly weary. 'Yeah, they're… with her.' He assumed. He had no idea how long this surgery was going to take; much like the nurse, he was no doctor. 'It didn't go well.' That was an understatement. Though she'd never shared her birth plan, he knew that none of this was even on the many alternatives he expected she'd prepared for.

Robyn's eyes widened. 'Is the baby…?'

He felt a rush of affection for her, relieved not to be the only one with these priorities. 'She's okay.'

'It's a girl?'

He nodded.

'And Francesca?'

He shook his head slowly, unable to think of what to say. How did you explain what had happened, how she'd been lit up from within with happiness and pride one second, and was fading before his eyes the next? It had all been so sudden and he was still struggling to comprehend it. It was easier to focus upon the reason he'd come down here in the first place.

'Come and see her. The baby.'

'Now?' Robyn raised her voice again. 'I can't just leave the ward, Max, Tess will kill me. And you if she sees you. She's like a dragon today.'

'And with good reason.' They both jumped as the clinical nurse manager interrupted their conversation. 'Where have you been? You were supposed to have been gone five minutes, how long does it take to deliver a patient upstairs?'

'I got held up.'

'Well now you're back here, we've got three patients who need taking to x-ray and one who's being transferred to oncology. And Robyn-'

But Tess got no further as Max broke the unspoken rule and interrupted her.

'I can't.'

Tess stopped dead, and blinked. 'Excuse me?'

He pulled a face. 'I'm sorry, Tess, but I can't, I've got somewhere else I need to be. And so has Robyn.'

'Max…' Robyn tailed off.

'This is completely unacceptable,' Tess informed him, anger flashing in her eyes. 'Here we are, three doctors down, and now you two want to go and do what exactly?'

The question dangled in the air for a long second, as Robyn stared at him, waiting for him to wriggle his way out of this one. This had been a long time coming, he thought, thinking back over all of those months that he and Francesca had avoided each other, entirely professional but entirely remote. All the glares from Cal and Ethan, all the veiled bitchy comments from Robyn. He almost felt sorry for Tess that she had to hear this revelation after all this time.

'Max?' She prompted him.

He gave a heavy sigh and rubbed his face. 'Francesca's had her baby.'

'Yes, and?'

'And it's mine.' He watched as the realisation spread across her face. For some reason he felt the words, 'I'm sorry,' escape from his lips, as though he owed something to her.

Tess closed her eyes slowly. 'Of course,' she murmured. 'Is it a boy or girl?'

'A girl.'

'And is she okay?'

'Yeah. I think so.'

Tess nodded slowly. 'What about Francesca?'

'She's… in surgery.'

Tess nodded again. Then she said, 'Go on.'

'What?'

'Go and see her. The baby. Your _daughter_.' She stressed the word, and if he wasn't already so confused, he could have sworn that was the hint of a smile on her face. 'We'll manage.'

'And Robyn?'

'Quickly!' Tess rolled her eyes. 'And… send our best to Francesca.'

Max nodded, as Robyn thanked her, and they made their escape before anything else could hinder them.

There'd never been many perks to Max's job before. There was the potential for extended cigarette breaks and it was certainly never boring, but sometimes when he heard the things his university friends received as a general side-effect of working, he experienced a feeling he supposed was mild jealousy. Company cars, work parties, overnight conferences, excessive amounts of discount with an array of randomly collated companies. It wasn't much, but it was something. Given his wage which might have been a bad punchline and the generally unglamorous nature of his work, Max thought he deserved a few more perks.

This was one of them though. Being a porter tended to gain you access where greater mortals might have found their progress barred. Instead of being interrogated at the door of the neonatal unit, he was immediately buzzed in by a cheerful brunette nurse called Andrea who he'd shot the breeze with before.

'Hey!' she greeted him with her usual dazzling smile. 'Haven't seen you in a while, stranger!'

'No,' he agreed, before finding his energy faltering. Normally he could chat and joke and laugh for far longer than he was really supposed to. Today was very far from a normal day, something which clearly wasn't lost on Andrea, whose smile faded to a frown.

'Is everything okay?'

Now, standing here, Max wasn't really too sure. As he struggled to find the words to express himself, he counted his blessings that he'd made a slight detour downstairs before coming here.

'You've had a baby brought in. Baby Hardy?' Robyn said. 'Can we see her?'

'Well, that depends…' Andrea regarded Robyn a little suspiciously. 'I'd have to check with-'

'He's the father.' Robyn pointed at her step-brother, only mildly accusatory. Old habits died hard, Max thought, remembering how she'd looked at him months before when the existence of this baby had finally come to light. This was certainly another mess he'd got them into.

Andrea's eyebrows raised. 'Oh. I… didn't know…' Then, slipping into professional mode again, she nodded. 'Okay. She's really well, healthy weight and length, fantastic lungs! She was a little cold when she came onto the ward so we've popped her in an incubator. The mother…?'

Max once again let Robyn field the question. 'She's in surgery.'

'Right.' Andrea nodded. 'So, do you want to come with me?'

Max wasn't entirely sure he did, but didn't see how he could say no. He trailed behind the nurse down the corridor, not knowing quite what he was taking himself towards. Those few brief moments in the lift, cradling this stranger, they'd been entirely surreal. The lift had seemed like another world away, a place where he and Francesca had been different people, _nicer_ people. Out here, he didn't know what he was really, and every step he took was taking him closer towards a destiny he hadn't chosen. By the time they reached the nursery, he could feel his heart banging in his chest uncomfortably, making him ever so slightly breathless.

'We've already given her a bottle,' Andrea informed him. 'She's sleeping right now; they do that quite a bit at first. We've taken her off the heart monitor, she's strong as an ox. Her temperature is stabilising though, so if you wanted to hold her for a few minutes, it wouldn't affect her. She might quite like it.' Then, with a small smile, she said, 'Congratulations by the way. Daddy. I'll leave you to get acquainted properly for a few minutes.' She'd gone before he could protest.

'Well?' Robyn prompted him as he didn't step any closer to the incubator.

'What?'

'Are we…?' she gestured vaguely towards where the baby was. 'Are we looking from a distance or…?' With an exasperated sigh, she said, 'Come on, Max, don't do this.'

'Don't do what?'

'Freak out.'

'I'm not freaking out! I'm…' He tailed off, no idea how that sentence could end. The cold sweat down his spine and his patent refusal to move forwards was rather belying his protestations.

'You're freaking out,' Robyn concluded.

He ran a hand over his face. She'd caught him bang to rights. He took a few deep breaths, hoping to stop himself hyperventilating, as he said in a small voice, 'What if I can't do this?'

'Pick her up?'

'And the rest.' He ruffled his hair. 'What if I can't do any of this?'

Robyn looked at him, long and hard, her face entirely inscrutable. Then, in a matter-of-fact voice, she said, 'You don't really get a choice. You've got to.'

It was just the reality check he needed.

He exhaled again. 'Okay. Okay, let's do this.' He rubbed his hands together and took a step nearer to the incubator.

She'd been cleaned up since he'd last seen her, and now her face wasn't screwed up in an angry grimace, he was able to take in a bit more about her. She had a small button nose and surprisingly full cheeks for a baby. Her eyebrows were delicate lines and she had the sort of pouting full lips which women paid a fortune for. Her skin was a much calmer shade of pink now. It was quite a change from earlier.

Robyn gave a sharp intake of breath. 'Oh my God, she's gorgeous.'

Max looked again, and realised that, without a doubt, his step-sister was right. The feeling overtook him, washing away the fears and doubts he'd spent the past few minutes cultivating. She was his daughter and she was beautiful. It was the sort of moment which didn't come along often. Max had never experienced such a fierce surge of emotions. He'd spent much of his life drifting, yet suddenly he had a very clear goal in his mind. Whatever it took, he was going to make her happy. He was going to love and protect her and be the very best man he could be for his little girl. It wasn't what he'd had planned for his life that morning, but it didn't seem such a bad aim overall.

The issue of Francesca he was going to leave aside for now.

* * *

The afternoon had turned into evening without Ethan really noticing. Hospitals tended to exist in a strange void where time didn't make much difference. Down in the ED, Ethan charted the passing of the hours by the patients who trailed in. Rush-hour car crashes gave way to children in uniforms, soon to be replaced by tipsy teenagers with cuts and bruises and the makings of a killer hangover. In this waiting room, though, minutes went past like hours and all without the slightest hint that anything was happening outside of the room. It was no wonder relatives always seemed at least half as ill as the patients.

The nurse had returned a short while ago, directing most of her words at him. Cal had sat in seething silence whilst she'd related the extent of Fran's illness, the surgery she was now undergoing, how the doctor would be out to see Ethan as soon as possible. Ethan had tried his best to listen carefully, even as he became aware of how empty the words were: this was the placating speech they were all trained to give relatives when they didn't really know or didn't want to share the full facts. He wondered if other people noticed the insincerity or if it was an insider secret. All the time, though, he'd been aware of his brother, a simmering anger beside him. It was only a matter of time before he snapped.

'Is there a reason you're acting like I'm not here?'

The nurse shot him an irritated look, suggesting at least part of the reason was Cal's own attitude. In an overly professional voice, she said, 'I'm authorised to speak to Dr Hardy's next-of-kin. Her brother, Ethan Hardy.' Shooting Cal a final glower, she left the room, ponytail swinging.

Ethan felt Cal's look of contempt rather than saw it. He chose not to respond. Anything he did say would be taken the wrong way right now, and besides, he didn't know where he'd start. Her next-of-kin. He had no idea when she'd done that. It wasn't entirely illogical, of course, and he suspected even Fran (perhaps _especially_ Fran) would have updated things in the past few months. It wasn't as though she'd been in much contact with her parents recently, and London to Holby was a fair drive. It sort of made sense that she'd have changed her next-of-kin. It was that she'd opted for Ethan rather than Cal that surprised him.

There were the obvious reasons, of course. They shared both a name and a significant proportion of their DNA. They had the same inherited short-sightedness and obsession with facts. In a weird twist of fate, they both had scars on their left knees from entirely separate accidents. If all of that counted, they were very much each other's next-of-kin.

But then there was the other stuff. The way Cal and Fran had the same topical references to TV shows they'd watched on lazy Sunday mornings at home. How the same flash of anger surfaced in their eyes whenever anybody challenged their professional opinions. That was all without mentioning how it was always Cal she turned to whenever things went wrong. It had been the same since they were kids, and the past few months had only proved that more and more. Fran and Cal were partners in crime. It made no sense that she'd opt for Ethan in this.

Especially as she knew what he'd do, what he had to do, in the circumstances. Maybe that was it. Maybe she couldn't bear for her precious Cal to have to betray her in such dramatic style. Such betrayal came naturally to Ethan, of course; surely in Fran's book it hardly counted as betrayal seeing as he'd been desperate to do this for months.

Looking across at his brother now, he wondered if Cal would fight against it, Fran's protector to the last. If anybody ever doubted Cal's loyalty (and by 'anybody', Ethan specifically meant women), they needed to see the way his blood was practically jumping out of his veins right now. Ethan was momentarily afraid of how his brother might react to what he was about to say.

And then, Cal spoke.

'When are you phoning your dad?'

Ethan raised his eyebrows. 'You think I should?'

'You don't?'

'No. I do. I… I just didn't expect you to think the same,' Ethan replied honestly.

'It's the next-of-kin's responsibility, isn't it?' The anger was only mildly outweighing the hurt in his voice now. His eyes were red-rimmed, and whilst Ethan hadn't seen any actual tears falling, Cal's voice was certainly strained to breaking point. Emotions were always writ large across his brother's face. Right now, Ethan was almost jealous of Cal's ability to feel.

'You know that doesn't mean anything,' he said after a silence. 'It's just… words. Forms.'

Cal nodded slowly. Then, in a voice which sounded so much younger than his years, younger than Ethan thought he'd ever heard his older brother: 'Ethan, what if she-'

'She won't.' That wasn't a thought Ethan could even entertain.

'You don't know that.'

'Cal,' Ethan said wearily, feeling, not for the first time in his life, like the older not the younger brother. 'Just…'

The door opened again, and they both jumped to attention. Like soldiers, Ethan thought darkly, wondering exactly how much more they'd have to fight today.

The nurse was flanked by a doctor this time. A surgeon, Ethan corrected himself, vaguely recognising the man's picture from the corridor outside and numerous hospital pamphlets. If the surgeon was out of surgery that meant something had happened. His stomach tensed uncomfortably.

'I'm Mr Danson. I've been operating on your sister.' The surgeon nodded his greetings at both brothers. 'She's out of surgery.'

'She's okay?' Cal demanded, unable to keep a hold on his tongue any longer. Ethan wasn't even annoyed; in fact, he was grateful. Relief had sealed his own mouth shut as he sent silent thanks to whatever being, however unlikely, had kept his sister from harm.

'She's lost a lot of blood,' Mr Danson explained. 'She suffered from what we call a postpartum haemorrhage. Your sister had been suffering from hypertension for a few months before the birth.' Ethan briefly glanced at Cal, only to see the same surprise on his face. 'I assume she hadn't complained of any symptoms?'

Ethan found his voice finally, his mouth twisted into a wry bitter smile. 'Fran's preferred to pretend all of this hasn't been happening.'

Mr Danson nodded slowly. 'Hypertension leads to an increased risk of postpartum haemorrhage. That combined with the unusual nature of your sister's labour led to a severe blood loss. We've successfully inserted a balloon tamponade into her uterus to stem the bleeding. We managed to avoid the need for a hysterectomy.'

Ethan wasn't sure what the correct response to that was exactly. It wasn't the sort of conversation he'd ever anticipated having. Silence seemed about the best option.

'But she's okay?' Cal put in again, all those years of medical training apparently coming to nothing when he was under pressure. Ethan would almost have scoffed at him, but for the fact that he was asking the only question he really wanted answering.

'She's weak and we've sedated her for the time being to allow her body some time to recover. But… yes, she should be okay.' Mr Danson smiled finally. 'She should be coming around in the next hour or so. She's had a lucky escape. Whoever thought to staunch the flow of blood before she got here did well.'

Max. It was the only possible explanation, and Ethan thought of all the times he'd misjudged the porter, seen him as nobody important. Suddenly, he was very important, and he wanted to tell him so.

'Can we see her?' Cal persisted.

'Louisa will come and get you when she's ready for visitors.' Mr Danson indicated the nurse. 'If you have any more questions, my shift doesn't end for another few hours and I'll be happy to answer them.'

Ethan nodded his thanks as the door closed behind them. There was a long silence in the room. He had a horrible feeling that Cal might actually be crying now, as though it was safe to let loose now that the worst had been taken off of the table. Ethan's mind was still turning over the decisions he still had to make. It was the smallest flash of what his little sister had been going through and he wondered how lonely Fran had felt all these months.

Determined to take back some control, no matter how small, he stood up. When Cal lifted his head quizzically, he spoke as firmly and decisively as he knew how. 'I'm going to call Dad.' He prepared himself for a backlash, but all he got was a slow nod from his older brother. It was that more than anything else which provoked the rush of love Ethan suddenly felt for him. He didn't think he'd ever been so pleased his brother had come to live in Holby.

He left the waiting room looking for a payphone, unwilling to go all the way outside to make a simple phone call. His dad and Fran's mum lived in the same house they always had, the phone number imprinted onto Ethan's childhood brain as clearly as his own name. How he'd open the conversation, he had no idea; if Fran had been avoiding her family for the past year, he hadn't been much better. There was so much their dad was unaware of and breaking all of that over the phone wouldn't be Ethan's ideal manner of communication.

So lost in thought was he that he almost walked headlong into Max as he rounded the corner.

'Sorry!' The apology tripped off of Ethan's tongue before he'd quite realised who he was speaking to. Then he reasoned it was probably the most apt opening under the circumstances. He was surprised to realise how much Max resembled Cal right now, the same exhaustion and worry written into every laughter line on the other man's face.

'How is she?' Max wasted no time in asking. Ethan had no idea what had happened in that lift. Truthfully, he had no idea what his sister felt about this man, the father of the child she'd spent nine months trying to ignore. They'd rarely spoken of him, Fran choosing to pretend he also didn't exist. It wasn't the fairytale romance Ethan would have wanted for his baby sister. But he had to give credit where credit was due: Max was here, asking the question. And… he'd _saved her life_ , all but. That was a win on the lottery.

He nodded. 'She's... okay. They've stopped the bleeding. She… she should be fine.' He knew he hadn't imagined the tension evaporating from Max's shoulders. For the first time, he wondered if Fran had been as easy to ignore for Max as Max seemed to have been for Fran. All this time Cal had been cursing the feckless bastard who had got their sister knocked up. Ethan didn't know many feckless bastards who stuck around on days like today.

An awkward silence took over, until Ethan broke it, his social anxiety kicking in. 'I'm just on my way to phone our dad.'

'Oh yeah. Sure.' Max nodded. Then, 'Is she awake?'

Ethan paused and looked at him quizzically. 'Not yet. Why?'

'When she does wake up, can you tell her something from me?' In a rush, he said, 'Just tell her… tell her the baby's fine. She's… perfect.' The worry lifted from his face as it creased into the warmest grin Ethan had ever seen on the porter's face.

The baby. Amongst everything else, Ethan had forgotten all about her. The tiny human at the centre of all of this chaos and fuss. Fran had had it all worked out, as far as he knew, how she was going to hand the baby over without a second glance. Max had never factored in this. Looking at him now, Ethan knew without being told: things had changed in that lift, and Fran's previous decisions were null and void.

* * *

Some people described regaining consciousness like resurfacing after diving in the sea. It was a way of communicating it to others who hadn't experienced it, but Fran had always suspected it romanticised it. Now she was sure. To her, it felt more like waking up after the worst night's sleep ever, which was basically what it was. She'd never claimed to be good with words.

Blinking against the sudden bright light, the first thing that hit her was how every inch of her body seemed to be suffering. The second was that her baby wasn't with her, a feeling which struck her like an additional physical blow to the stomach.

So before Cal or Ethan could so much as speak, she asked, 'Where is she?'

'Hey, take it easy,' Cal said.

But Fran wasn't to be put off. 'Where's my baby?' As Cal blinked, glancing from her to Ethan, a horrible thought passed through her. 'Is she okay? I need to see her!' Casting her mind back, she tried to think back, tried to see beyond the void of time. All she could remember was being in the lift, with Max, holding her baby and then… nothing. Panicked, she tried to get up. 'What's happened to her?'

'She's fine. You need to stay in bed,' Ethan insisted, placing his hands on her arms to prevent her moving any further. Fran was partially grateful as she felt her body protest, pain spreading from unimaginable places.

'Where is she?' she demanded, unable to entirely let this go even as her brother eased her back into bed.

'She's downstairs in the baby unit. It's just a precaution, because she's early and because of how she was born. She's fine, Fran.'

She stared at him for several seconds. 'Really?' He nodded. 'And they haven't… taken her or anything?'

'No.'

'Fran, please take it easy,' Cal said again, sounding increasingly desperate. 'You've just had major surgery!'

'What?' she looked at him, attention diverted momentarily even as her brain processed what Ethan had said. The baby was okay, she was here, in this hospital. She was going to be fine. What Cal was saying was less important, yet she needed to hear it. 'What do you mean?' Looking at her eldest brother now, she saw how exhausted he looked, pink-eyed and grey-faced. It was a million miles from the Caleb Knight who bowled around the ED as if he owned the place. He looked shattered. Had she done that to him?

Certainly he seemed unable to explain now, falling back on the reliable member of the family to relate the story in the detached fashion Ethan favoured whenever faced with difficult news. 'You haemorrhaged after having her. You lost a lot of blood. They've inserted a balloon tamponade. You should be fine.'

A few short simple sentences but it was beyond Fran to take them in right now. 'What about the baby?'

'She's fine!' Cal snapped. 'You're the one who's ill.'

'I'm fine. I need to see her.'

'And the doctors say you need to stay in bed.' Ethan pushed her back again. 'Fran, you nearly died.'

She filed that away for later. 'I need to see her.' Then, seeing Ethan's determination, she jutted her jaw out. 'One of you needs to go and see her.'

'Fran!'

'I need to know she's okay!' _Don't you get it,_ she wanted to shout, before realising that of course they didn't. Until today, she hadn't got it. The baby had been an inconvenience, a problem to be dealt with. She hadn't known how much she'd miss her as soon as she was in the world, no longer safely wrapped inside of her. Having her in the same hospital wasn't enough.

'I'll go.' Cal nodded towards Ethan. 'You better stay. You know…'

'Right.'

Fran had no idea what they were saying, but that was something else to deal with later. 'Make sure she's okay. Make sure she's not alone.'

'I'll be back soon.'

Leaving Ethan.

He let out a long sigh. 'You had us really worried there, Fran. Cal and I almost agreed on something.' When that didn't raise a smile, he sank into the chair next to the bed. 'Why didn't you say something?'

'About what?'

'The hypertension? Being in labour? You don't just suddenly give birth in a lift, Fran. How long had you known?'

She shrugged because it was easier than explaining.

Exasperated, Ethan said, 'I never thought I was going to say this, but thank God for Max.'

'Why?' A question which was less awkward than asking where he was.

'You don't remember? He basically saved your life. Stopped you bleeding out entirely.'

'Max?'

'Max.' Then, uncertain, Ethan said, 'I've… called Dad by the way.'

She didn't know how he'd expected her to react. From the way he'd braced himself, she guessed it wasn't how she did: quietly, resignedly, without another word. She didn't have the energy to fight it anymore.

* * *

It had been the longest day. Cal had always measured long days by how they compared to the shifts he'd pulled as a junior doctor. They'd felt interminable and nothing else had ever quite come close. Today was so far ahead of those days that he knew he'd forever have a new standard to measure every other day by. His shift would have finished several hours ago. For the first time, he wondered how the ED had coped, three doctors down. Everything downstairs seemed so far away this evening that it may as well have been in another time and place all together.

The neonatal unit was quiet. After being buzzed in, Cal was met by a nurse, one much more cheerful than Louisa on the maternity ward. Perhaps being around babies did that to women.

'Visiting hours are, strictly, over,' Andrea informed him with a conspiratorial smile. 'But I suppose we can bend the rules just this once. Well, twice.'

Cal was about to ask what she meant when they rounded the corner and he found Max sitting in a chair, a shapeless bundle in his arms and a bottle in his hand.

'Your daughter's a popular girl, Max,' Andrea chirped. 'You'll have to keep a close eye on her.'

Max flashed her a grin, even as he shot Cal a wary look. Cal didn't know if he imagined it, but it seemed he tightened his grip on the baby, as though there was some danger at hand. Cal felt an irritation boil up in him at that – he _was_ the baby's uncle, of sorts – but then he thought back over the last time he'd seen Max, and he supposed it wasn't such an irrational response after all.

'My shift ends at nine,' Andrea informed them both. 'I don't mind you staying until then. After that…'

'We'll go quietly,' Max said softly, smiling. 'Thanks for this.'

The nurse coloured up beautifully underneath his gaze, almost causing Cal to lose perspective on what he was here for; this hardly seemed the time for Max to be flirting. Then the baby gave a small gurgle as the bottle slipped out of her mouth, and Cal remembered why he'd come.

There was a long pause, as Max continued feeding his daughter, and Cal looked down at the strange domestic scene, not sure what he was supposed to say. Finally, Max broke the silence.

'How's Francesca?'

'She's… okay. She's awake.' Cal nodded.

'Did she send you down here?'

As if Max had criticised her, Cal broke into a hasty defence of his sister. 'She can't come down here herself yet, she's not well enough, she just wanted me to-'

'Hey,' Max interrupted him, infuriatingly laid back. 'I was just asking. I'm glad she's okay. As is this one.' He turned his attention back to the baby as the last few drops of milk disappeared out of the bottle. 'She's a hungry thing.'

Cal watched as Max set the bottle aside and began winding the baby as if he'd been doing it all his life. He wondered if there was anything the porter didn't seem to do naturally; he landed on his feet more times than a cat.

And then Cal looked again. Really looked. And he saw a man only a few years younger than he was having gone through a really hard day. He could only imagine what being in that lift had been like today; he certainly wasn't sure he'd have coped quite as calmly as Max seemed to have done. Nobody had said it in so many words, but it sounded much as though Max's actions had gone a long way to preventing things being even worse for Fran. He'd possibly saved her life. Given that, and the tiny human nestled in his arms, Cal wasn't sure his anger had much place here.

'So how is she?' Cal asked at length. When Max looked up at him, frowning, he added a little awkwardly, 'The baby. How is she?'

'She's good.' Max's smile spread across his face again. 'She was a bit cold when she came in here so they want to at least spend the night here. Especially with Francesca as she is. But… she's fine.' After the briefest of pauses, he said, 'Do you want to hold her?'

Cal hadn't even thought about that. Babies weren't usually his thing. He tended to steer clear of them at any events, always disliking how it made every woman of child-bearing age (and some beyond it) look at him with a certain misty-eyed hope. Cal didn't like to inspire hope in women; he usually found it tied him down rather too much.

And yet now he was nodding, without any hesitation, and the bundle was being transferred into his arms, surprisingly heavy and awkward. She stirred as she was shifted from father to uncle, opening her eyes briefly. They were the darkest brown Cal had ever seen. She stared up into his face, not afraid or confused, just curious. She studied him in a way he hadn't been studied before in his life. He found it rather difficult to break eye-contact.

'Is Francesca allowed visitors?'

'What?' Distracted, Cal wasn't quite sure what he'd been asked. The baby had closed her eyes again, settling into the sort of sleep Cal wasn't even sure he could remember.

'Can Francesca have visitors?' Then, as Cal looked at him, Max added, 'Not tonight. But… tomorrow?' When there still came no reply, he said, in a much smaller voice, 'I'd like to see her.'

It took Cal's brain several seconds to catch up with what was being said; he'd thought only the mother got baby-brain, but this one was turning his mind to mush by the looks of it. It was only a few moments after Max's quiet justification that he realised how this looked, and he found himself hastily trying to explain.

'I wasn't saying… it's not that…' He took a second to string a few words together which actually made sense. 'I think she'd like you to visit.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. You know.' He shrugged awkwardly, before remembering the slumbering baby in his arms and freezing instantly, much to Max's amusement. 'Maybe you should take her back.'

The porter jumped at the opportunity, cradling his daughter close to him. They stood in silence for a few seconds, before Max seemed to wrench some words from deep down inside of him, sounding for all the world like they were the most important words he'd ever said.

'I'm just going to ask. Is Francesca keeping her?'

Cal raised his eyebrows.

'I know she was talking about…' Max tailed off, as though the very words were distasteful to him now the baby was here in his arms. 'I just want to know.'

Cal regarded him carefully. Fran hadn't said as much. He knew all the plans she'd made, the decisions she'd taken, and he knew his little sister rarely changed her mind. But her urgency when she'd woken up, her insistence on his coming straight down here, the passion in her voice when she talked about her daughter… there didn't seem any other real answer.

'I think she's going to, yeah.'

Max nodded slowly. 'Okay. Thanks.'

'Thank you.' Cal was almost as startled as Max was. 'For… for what you did. Today. Thanks.'

'It's nothing.'

'Yeah it is. So thanks.'

Max gave him a small smile. 'Anyone would have done the same.' Then, as if this was all too much for him, he said in a more brisk tone, 'The thing is, they won't let Francesca take her home until she's got a car-seat.'

The change of topic was disorientating but Cal thought he was just about following. 'Okay, we'll get one.'

'No!' Max bit his lip, closing his eyes as he struggled to explain himself. 'I mean, I'll get one. If… if that's what Francesca wants.'

'You don't have to do that.'

'I want to.' There was a steely determination in his eyes that Cal had never seen before. Max had always been the happy-go-lucky guy around the ward. He'd never seemed that passionate about anything. It seemed things were changing around here, quickly.

Cal nodded. 'That would be helpful.' Then, as he took a step backwards, he said, 'I should be getting back.'

Max nodded. 'See you around then.'

'Yeah.' Cal thought that, if Fran really was going to keep this baby, that was probably one of the truest things he'd ever heard.

* * *

 ** _Next time: The Reason_**

 _'Francesca's going to need help,' Tess was saying now, and Max wondered if she was listening to herself: Francesca had never needed anybody's help. 'A new baby is hard work.'_

 _'I know.'_

 _'So at the end of this shift, you're off for two weeks.' It was said with the decisiveness Tess was known for. She nodded once before heading back to work, leaving Max standing, blinking, wondering at what point he was going to catch up with what everybody else seemed to have accepted unquestioningly._

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title again from 'Officially Alive' by Brad Paisley


	21. The Reason

**Thanks again for your kind reviews and PMs. Moving into part 2 now ;)**

* * *

 _I found a reason for me to change who I used to be, a reason to start over new. And the reason is you._

'Well, there's somebody who looks like he could use a strong coffee and the baby's not even left hospital yet.' Ash greeted Max with a slap on the shoulder and an amused grin. 'Get used to the sleepless nights, you'll be having them for at least the next eighteen years.'

Despite his exhaustion, Max was unable to resist smiling. 'I'll… bear that in mind.'

'Congratulations.'

'Thanks.'

'I won't say I'm not surprised. That was some secret you kept there.'

Max accepted the implied criticism. He had a feeling it wouldn't be the last time there were narrowed eyes and whispered conversations about what had happened between Francesca and him nine months ago. Gossip had never bothered him. Francesca would probably have much more to say about the situation, but for now, he was content. It was hard to feel any other way after yesterday.

'Hey!' Rita pulled him into a violent hug. 'Congratulations!'

'Thanks.'

'How heavy is she? Have you got a name yet? Who does she look like?'

He smiled at the barrage of questions. 'Erm, seven pounds three ounces. Not yet. I don't know.' Pulling his phone from his pocket, he called up a photo of her. 'What do you think?'

'Oh she's gorgeous!' Rita fell to gushing over the photo, leaving Max free to accept Charlie's congratulations.

'And how's Francesca doing?'

'Better.' Max nodded. 'She was awake last night. I'm going to head up and see her on my break today.'

'Send her our best,' Charlie instructed him. 'Tell her she's to rest up and look after that little girl of yours.'

'I think that's a bit of a contradiction in terms, Charlie,' Ash quipped, before collecting a file and heading into the thick of things in the department. Within a few more minutes, Rita and Charlie had been swept up into the organised chaos of the ED and Max was standing alone with his phone. He couldn't help thinking how changed everything was from yesterday, and yet how the same. He supposed not everybody had had their life turned upside down by somebody who couldn't find her own feet.

'Max?' Tess frowned. 'I didn't expect to see you today.'

'I'm down for a shift…'

She gave him a strangely motherly look. 'And you've got a brand new baby. I've fast-tracked the forms for your paternity leave.'

'You have?'

'I assumed you'd be taking some time?'

Max had given it no thought whatsoever. He hadn't thought about any of the logistics of the baby's existence on this planet. Yesterday had been too much of a headspin to get his head around anything more than having a vague understanding that he'd shifted up the family tree. Allowances and benefits and rights and simple plans were beyond him. Honestly, he expected they were very much more Francesca's territory, but he didn't know what was going on in her head. He should probably check.

'Francesca's going to need help,' Tess was saying now, and Max wondered if she was listening to herself: Francesca had never needed anybody's help. 'A new baby is hard work.'

'I know.'

'So at the end of this shift, you're off for two weeks.' It was said with the decisiveness Tess was known for. She nodded once before heading back to work, leaving Max standing, blinking, wondering at what point he was going to catch up with what everybody else seemed to have accepted unquestioningly.

He was especially disheartened to see Robyn's disappointment when he caught up with her. Before he'd even opened his mouth, she'd rolled her eyes and groaned.

'I haven't said anything!'

'You're freaking out again,' Robyn said matter-of-factly as she checked the supplies cupboard. 'Is this going to be a regular thing?'

He threw her a disgruntled look, trying hard to look as hurt as he felt. It was exhaustion that was making him so emotional, he knew, although he wondered if there was some kind of hormone only released on becoming a parent. People always talked about the mass of chemicals surging through a mother's body; he wasn't so sure that the intense visceral reaction he'd had upon seeing his daughter for the first time hadn't triggered something in him.

Robyn only relented when he turned away from her.

'I'm joking, I'm joking!' she said, grabbing his sleeve. 'When did you get so sensitive?' Then, more seriously, more like the big sister she could be when she had to be, she said, 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing.'

'Max!' She caught him by both shoulders. 'Don't be such a baby. You've got one of your own now.'

'Have I though?'

'What?'

Max rubbed at the place between his eyes that had been throbbing since he'd got up that morning after the most pointless night's sleep he'd ever had. 'Everybody's just assuming that this is it, she's here to stay.'

'You said Cal had said-'

'I know, but what does Cal know?' He leaned back against the desk. 'I'm just saying… Francesca doesn't tend to change her mind.'

'But you said she said-'

'I know! I just…' He tailed off before rubbing his eyes again, aware how insane he sounded. Less than half an hour ago, he'd been accepting congratulations, smiling, laughing even. Now he was on the verge of despair. Maybe he needed that time-off, even if it wasn't paternity leave.

'Did you get any sleep last night?' Robyn asked now, kindly, gently.

'Not a whole bunch. What if Francesca still wants to have her adopted?' It was the first time he'd said the A-word and it didn't taste any nicer in his mouth than it sounded in his head. Not when it applied to his daughter, anyway.

'Are you saying… are you saying you don't _want_ her to be adopted?'

'Yes. No. I don't know.'

'I think that's something you really need to make your mind up on.'

'I know!' Max covered his face with his hands, exasperated and anxious. He felt like he had the one and only time he'd ever dabbled with illegal drugs, an experience which had left him jumping out of his own skin and vowing never to repeat the experiment. 'I know, I know.'

'You really need to sleep.'

'I know.'

'And you need to speak to Francesca.'

He lifted his head from his hands and threw his step-sister a look. 'What? You've barely even wanted me to _look_ at her for the past nine months. Which was way too little too late, by the way, for future reference.'

Robyn rolled her eyes again. 'I'm just saying. You want to know what she's thinking. Ask her.'

'How simple.'

'Well, you seemed to get on with her yesterday!'

'She was in labour!'

'Exactly. She was scared and in pain and she still wasn't a complete bitch to you. That's progress.' Giving him an affectionate squeeze on the arm, she said, 'You need to know. Then you can make plans.'

'Plans?'

'If she does want to have her adopted…' Robyn paused. 'If she gives her away, are you going to take her?'

'Me?'

'You're her dad.' Robyn shrugged. 'And that's what you've got to decide.'

He let out a small groan. 'I'm rubbish at decisions.'

'Yeah, you are. But be honest, Max. Is there even a choice?' She raised her eyebrows, and he knew there wasn't. 'So go and ask her. Just… go easy on her. She's just given birth.'

Max stared at her in some kind of wonder. 'When did you get so wise?'

'When I had my idiot little brother move in, get a colleague pregnant and then somehow have the most beautiful little girl on the planet.' A third roll of the eyes was accompanied with a small laugh and a playful nudge. 'Go and see her.'

* * *

Whilst nothing could beat yesterday as a day of stress and fear, today was doing a pretty good job of competing with it. Far from it being a time to rest and take stock of what the past twenty-four hours had done to him and the people he loved, Ethan was now awaiting the final piece of the very messy puzzle. His father had called to say that they were leaving London an hour ago; they'd be with them this afternoon. Ethan wondered if everybody looked forward to parental visits with quite so much trepidation. Granted, these were unusual circumstances, but he couldn't remember a time when he'd ever been relaxed in his father's presence. This afternoon was going to be testing.

So now he was sitting outside in the Peace Garden, trying to practise the relaxation techniques he'd picked up from the half-hearted attempts he'd made at practising mindfulness. He was glad things had gone digital and there was no hard evidence of the podcasts he'd downloaded over the years: things with promising titles such as 'This Will Change Your Life!' and 'Healthy Mind, Healthy Life.' Cal would die laughing if he knew of their existence. Besides which, they'd never really worked. Now, Ethan managed barely three cycles of meditative breathing before he was interrupted by the very person who might make today even more trying.

'Hey.' Tiffany's presence would have disturbed even the most zen individual, which Ethan wasn't. His mind went into a spin as soon as she sat down beside him. 'How are you?'

Unsure how he was supposed to respond to that, he nodded.

'I heard about Francesca. Is she okay?'

Again he nodded, then, anxious not to appear entirely stupid, he said, 'She's doing well.'

'And the baby?'

'Yeah, she's fine.'

'That's good.' Tiffany nodded. Then, as if it had been bothering her for a while, 'Is… is it true that Max is…?'

Ethan had a feeling that this would be a recurring question for a while to come. 'Yes. He's the father.' Already it was starting to sound normal, something that had been true for a very long time, so much so that he was a little surprised that Tiffany didn't know; she was supposedly friends with Max after all. 'Didn't he tell you?'

'No.' In one word, she managed to convey what she thought of that, and Ethan found himself feeling sorry for her. How had that happened? Twenty-four hours ago he'd refused to even speak to her, and now he was sitting on a bench beside her, discussing his family's chaotic last few days. She didn't really deserve his sympathy after the way she'd behaved last week, and yet he couldn't help it. Max was her friend and he'd cut her out. That had to hurt.

'You look tired.'

He felt tired. The brief visit back to the flat had been enough for a shower and a change of clothes. Sleep had been an impossibility, apart from a short uncomfortable doze whilst waiting for Cal to be ready to come back again. Adrenalin was starting to run out and he was flagging.

But admitting defeat wasn't the Hardy way. Remembering how stoically Fran had borne the last few months, he said, 'I'm fine.'

Tiffany nodded. 'Yeah. Okay, I'll… leave you to it then…'

He almost let her go without another word. Less than a week ago, she'd lashed out in precisely the way she knew would wound him deepest. He hadn't even wanted to look at her. Letting her walk away was the logical thing.

Then he thought about the past twenty-four hours. How his sister had been through hell and back. How Max had helped her. They had more reason than most to not even want to breathe the same air as each other. Yet they were talking, Max was making noises like he was going to be involved in the baby's life. They were being grown-up about it all. In light of that, he wasn't sure he could keep this up.

'Tiffany?'

She hesitated, turned back to him. He took in the bambi eyes, the beseeching expression, the pouting lips. And he knew he couldn't be cross any longer.

'Thank you. For… asking after Fran. It was nice of you.'

Her smile was the energy boost he needed. 'That's alright. I… can be nice, sometimes.' Then, as if embarrassed by that very fact, she dropped her head. 'I'll… see you around.'

He nodded his reply and watched her go, suddenly feeling as though he could deal with whatever the next twenty-four hours could throw at him.

* * *

Fran came to with a start as there was a knock at the door. Falling asleep hadn't been part of the plan; now she ached all the way down her neck as well as just about everywhere else in her body. It was at moments like this that she thought that just maybe the doctors might be right and she did need to wait a little longer before getting out of bed. Then she pushed that aside; she was a doctor too and staying in bed much longer was not an option. It had already been twenty-four hours since she'd last seen her baby; another twenty-four hours was not going to happen.

She adjusted herself as much as she could, wincing as she felt every stitch pulling, before saying, 'Come in.'

To say she was surprised when Max's head appeared round the door was an understatement. Clearly it wasn't lost on him either, as the tentative smile he'd ventured slowly disappeared before he said, 'Is now a good time, cause I can come back… or, you know, go away…?'

'No. No, it's fine!' Finding her voice, Fran was instantly polite, before finding she actually did want him to stay; it beat staring at the four dreary walls around her anyway. 'Come in.'

He crossed the room and then awkwardly gestured towards the vase of flowers and the balloon next to her. 'I didn't bring anything like that. Sorry.'

'It's fine. That was Cal and Ethan.'

'They agreed on something?' Max faked shock and Fran laughed, before wincing visibly. 'Sorry! I'm probably not meant to make you laugh or something, right?' When she threw him an embarrassed questioning look, he made a vague typing gesture. 'Google. Some really not safe for work images.'

Trying to regain some dignity, she bit her tongue hard to distract herself from the pain. Given everything that had passed between them in the lift yesterday, she didn't know why she was still so easily embarrassed in front of him. And now there was this awkward silence where they were both clearly thinking about what exactly had happened in the lift yesterday and it didn't appear to be ending.

'So,' she said experimentally, wondering if actual words would follow on from that. Maybe staring at four walls would have been more attractive.

Max suddenly jerked himself into action. 'Oh right. Sorry, I did bring you something.' He fumbled in his pocket and produced his phone. 'I know you haven't been down to see her yet.'

'I haven't been allowed.' So defensive so quickly; Fran was embarrassed all over again. 'I've got to wait for a doctor and they keep saying I need to be careful and…'

'Hey, that's cool. Francesca, it's okay.' That soft gentle voice came into play again. 'I'm not judging. I just thought… well, I know you weren't going to but… I'm guessing you… might be keeping her? Cal might have mentioned something,' he added, almost apologetically, as though it wasn't any of his business and her brother might have been talking out of turn.

'Yeah.'

'Good. I mean… well, seeing as you can't go to her…' He tapped his phone screen a few times and then handed it over to Fran. 'I thought I could bring her to you. Or, you know, the next best thing.'

Fran was about to ask him what on earth he was babbling on about before she saw what was on the phone. And then she was overtaken by a choking hold in her chest that she simply wasn't prepared for. She thought she might have let out a small whimper which ordinarily would have left her mortified, but somehow wasn't even important on this occasion. Nothing was important compared with the photograph of perhaps the most perfect human being Fran had ever seen.

'If you swipe right, there's some more.'

There were: a lot more. Fran remembered how tedious she'd always found scrolling through wedding and baby pictures on her social media accounts. It was beyond her why people would believe every passing acquaintance they'd ever made would want to see the product of their loins; besides, every baby looked pretty much the same as any other in her experience. Her experience up until now, that was.

There were dozens of pictures on Max's phone, from every conceivable angle and of every conceivable part of the baby that anybody could want to see. Hands, and feet, and ears, and nose, and eyes, and full length shots, and shots of her face. It was a little overwhelming, but wonderful at the same time.

'This is…' She shook her head, unable to say anything, her mind and throat completely choked by what Max had done for her. 'Max, this is…' She found she could only come up with one word. 'Nice. It's really nice. _You're_ really nice.'

'I do try.' He gave a cheesy wink. 'This one's my favourite I think. Look how tiny her hands are!'

Then she swiped right again and came across a picture of him holding the baby. His grin looked wide enough to split his face.

'Oh, Robyn took that one.' He jumped into action and reached for the phone. 'It's a bit cheesy. Sorry. Concentrate on the others.'

But Fran found she couldn't swipe past it. She didn't know why she'd never considered this before. Well, she had, of course she had, but not properly. All through the lonely long months when she was making solo decisions, pushing her brothers away, building a wall up around herself, there'd been Max. He had a stake in this just as much as she did and she'd never even given him a voice. She didn't want to think about what kind of monster that made her.

Given all of that, she had to wonder, 'Why would you do this for me?'

'What do you mean?' He seemed genuinely bemused by her question. 'I thought you'd like it.'

'I do. I love it! I just don't know how you knew.'

There was a long pause, before Max said surprisingly seriously, 'Because she's your daughter too.' He bit his lip before adding, in a rush, 'The thing is, Francesca, I know I've not been great up until now, and… well, it's not like we really know each other or anything, but… I want to be part of this. If she's staying…' With an awkward shrug, he trailed off, pulling a face. 'Sorry. Robyn said I shouldn't rush into this. I totally get it if you want me to shut up about now.'

'No! You're fine. It's… fine.'

'You mean…'

'I mean… I'd like you to be a part of it.'

'Really?'

She glanced down at the picture on her phone again. He looked so happy it hurt. 'Really.'

Her throat choked up again as he said, more sincerely than she'd ever heard him speak before, 'Thank you.'

'No, thank you. For… this and…' Blood rushed to her face. She wasn't sure exactly how she would be able to word everything she wanted to say.

'You're welcome.' He smiled. 'You can hang onto the phone for now. Until you can get down there yourself. Might help you think of a name for her. She can't be Baby Hardy forever.'

A name. God, Fran hadn't considered that yet. She hadn't allowed herself to even dwell on it during the pregnancy: given she wasn't going to keep the baby it seemed a waste of time to think up a name for her. Now here she was, a living, breathing person and with no identify of her own, which was so untrue, Fran realised as she looked at the photos Max had taken again. Far from looking like every other baby she'd ever seen, this baby, _her daughter_ , already seemed unique and utterly different. She deserved more than just a token moniker.

'Rosie.' She had no idea where that name had been lurking. It wasn't one she remembered ever thinking about for more than about thirty seconds.

Max's lips twitched into a smile. 'Yeah?'

Flustered, Fran added, 'If you… like it.'

'I like it. It suits her. Rosie.' He nodded. 'Good choice.' He waved her goodbye as he left her alone in the room again. Alone, except for the photos of her daughter.

* * *

'So when they arrive we're just going to tell them the facts, right?' Ethan checked for about the tenth time that morning. 'We'll say we knew about the whole pregnancy thing but it was up to Fran to tell them, and… we thought she had told them?'

'You've already as good as admitted you knew it was a surprise,' Cal said from where he was chewing nicotine-replacement gum. He'd never know being a hospital visitor would afford fewer opportunities for a fag break than being an actual doctor. Desperate times definitely called for desperate measures. 'First rule of lying: remember what the lie is.'

'You'd know.' Ethan paced up the corridor again. 'Well, what are we going to say then?'

Cal raised an eyebrow. 'We? You're the one who called them.' _And he's your dad_ , he silently added, knowing how badly that went down at the best of times.

'It's not like I had much choice! Anyway, you agreed!'

'Not exactly.' Admitting he'd agreed would be admitting that he'd been properly scared last night, and that wasn't Cal's way.

'You asked me when I was calling them!' Ethan looked on the verge of an apoplexy as he slumped down next to Cal and hung his head in his hands. 'What are we going to do?'

'You need to relax, Nibbles.' Then, knowing that his brother was immune to relaxation, he said, 'This is Fran's problem anyway. Let her deal with it.'

'Are you for real? You're actually throwing our hospitalised sister under a bus like that?' Ethan rolled his eyes. 'God, Cal.'

Put like that, Cal could see the problem. Fran in her normal healthy state found standing up to her father troubling. In the state she was in right now, there'd be no contest.

Still, it wouldn't do for both of them to have a meltdown, and Cal knew his role as well as anybody else. He was the positive one, the light-hearted, flippant, irreverent one. It wasn't very often that his particular skills set came in useful; it would be wise to utilise it now.

'Once they see the baby it'll be game over anyway.' He shrugged. 'Don't sweat it.'

'Rosie.'

'What?'

'Rosie,' Ethan repeated. 'We might as well get used to it.'

Cal wasn't sure he wanted to. Not that he'd ever given much thought to baby names, but if he had, Rosie wouldn't even have featured in his top ten. What was more, he was pretty certain that Fran had been planning baby names since she was about eight, and he had never once heard her mention Rosie as a contender. This was a kneejerk reaction, borne of the chaos of the past twenty-four hours and one conversation with Max Walker.

'She'll change her mind.'

Ethan apparently decided not to pick him up on that, falling back on his earlier consternation. 'Seriously, Cal, what are we going to do?'

Cal had no answers and that was just as well, because the door at the end of the corridor was opening and in blazed David Hardy followed closely by Claire. He could practically feel Ethan shrink beside him, and not for the first time, Cal wondered why both of his siblings were so in awe of their father. It looked as though this was being left to him.

Of course, he'd forgotten quite how overpowering his step-father could be.

'I'm really hoping one of you is going to explain what the hell is going on,' were his opening words, a face like thunder and a voice not far behind. 'First I want to see my daughter though. Where is she?'

Ethan glanced at Cal, apparently looking for a lifeline. It wasn't very often that Cal got to play the responsible big brother, fighting Ethan's battles for him. This was something of a novelty.

One he could live very well without.

'I'm… going to go and check on the baby,' he said, stepping out of David Hardy's way. 'I'll… catch you later.'

He felt more than saw Ethan's despair. The only comment his brother made was, 'Her name's Rosie,' before the door closed behind Cal and left the family he'd never really felt a part of behind.

* * *

Francesca didn't do crying. It never solved anything and it was exhausting. There was nothing crying could do which pulling yourself together and dealing with something wouldn't do better. Tears were a waste of time.

That didn't stop her eyes becoming wet when her parents came into the room. It had been so long since she'd seen them, and it had been the longest day and night. Never an affectionate person, all she suddenly wanted was a hug.

'What happened?' her father demanded as soon as he stepped inside the door.

'David,' Claire said warningly as she crossed over to Fran and sat down beside her. 'How are you?'

'I'm… alright…' Old habits died hard and Fran was always alright. Her mother's concern was too much right then, so she turned again to her father. 'Dad, I…'

'We get a call in the middle of the night saying you've had a baby and major surgery. That isn't alright.'

'David,' Claire said again. 'This can all wait.'

'Mum, it's okay,' Fran insisted, hating this kid-glove handling of the situation. 'I'm… alright. And… I'm sorry…'

'You don't need to be apologising to _me_ ,' David began, and thereafter followed a litany of the people she should be apologising to. The hospital, who'd taken her on and now had to find a replacement when she'd worked there such a short time: 'You should count yourself lucky they're not living by the letter of the law; I'm not even sure you're entitled to proper maternity pay.'

Then there were the wider hospital staff who'd had to put up with her refusal to follow her midwife's recommendations regarding her blood pressure. This required a rather detailed perusal of her medical notes, which were supposed to be private as far as Fran was aware, and yet her father was reading sections aloud like he was at a poetry recital. She found no sympathy coming from Ethan's corner right now, suggesting he too was fuming with her blithe ignoring of a medical professional's opinion.

Then there was Ethan himself: 'It's entirely unfair of you to have put your brother through this. Either of them.' The latter added hastily, as if Cal's absence in the room had momentarily made David forget his step-son's role in all of this. This time Fran didn't even look at her brother, knowing how very right her father was. The past nine months had been awful for her, but she doubted they'd been much better for Cal or Ethan, living this lie alongside her, and getting very little thanks for it. She'd been a pretty terrible sister. She expected that, if he hadn't already, their father would have some very choice words for Ethan about the levels of deception he had to exercise to help keep the whole charade under wraps. It all seemed so ridiculous now, the very idea of keeping Rosie a shameful secret not making sense now she'd held her and seen her face. Those were two apologies she definitely needed to make, at some point.

Her mum also needed an apology: 'She's barely slept a wink all night, worrying about you.' Fran's stomach lurched, even as Claire held her hand tightly, her typically stoical smile saying that it hadn't been all that bad. For the first time, Fran was certain that her mum wasn't telling the truth. Rosie had been in the world less than twenty-four hours, and Fran had spent most of that time, when she wasn't drugged out, worrying about her. For Claire to claim she hadn't been worrying either meant she was a terrible mother or she was lying. There was no contest.

And the final person Fran had to apologise to, 'Before you even think about apologising to me,' was, apparently, herself. 'You've worked so hard. This isn't going to help your career, Francesca.'

It was at this point that Claire stepped in with more force than usual. 'David. This really can wait.' Then, more kindly to Fran, 'Can we get you anything? Have they said when you can go home?'

She shook her head, answering both questions in one.

'They want to keep her in overnight again,' Ethan said, apparently having spoken to the doctors. 'Just to check she's alright after the surgery. They think she might be able to go home tomorrow.'

'Well, that's good news,' Claire concluded, smiling. 'And how about the baby? Rosie, is it? Is she okay?'

Fran nodded. 'I haven't seen her since she was born.'

'But she's not ill?'

'She's fine,' Ethan put in. 'In better shape than Fran. And… Max brought you some photos, didn't he?'

Fran's eyes flickered over towards her father again, wondering how long it would take for him to take that bait.

Not long.

'Who's Max? Is this the father?' In response to her nod, he added, 'And who is he?'

'We work with him,' Ethan said, in a way intended to shut the conversation down. 'Fran, show your mum the photos.'

The phone had been by her side all day since Max had brought it to her. She'd swiped through them so many times, she was surprised the battery hadn't failed. Now she did it again, half-watching her mum's reaction, hoping she'd seen what Fran did every time she looked at them.

'Oh David, look,' Claire exclaimed, beckoning her husband over. 'She's beautiful, Fran. Really beautiful.'

David fell silent for a few seconds as he took in the image of his first grandchild. There was a softening of his features; apparently even he wasn't immune to the sight of a baby linked to him via blood.

And then, 'What about this Max then? Had he been planning on having a baby?'

And so it went on, uncurbed, until Fran wondered whether she was making a very terrible mistake after all.

* * *

Babies weren't really Cal's thing, but being here, surrounded by the things, was marginally better than being along the corridor surrounded by Hardys. He supposed the bundle of trouble in front of him was, technically, a Hardy – unless Fran's friendship with Max had accelerated to the point where they really were going to co-parent her. Then he supposed she was a Walker, something that would take more than a straightforward statement on a birth certificate to get his head around.

'And that,' he muttered to Rosie, aware that this was madness as the baby was less than a day old and definitely didn't understand what he was saying, 'is the least of your problems right now. I hope you know how much trouble you've caused.'

Rosie merely kicked her legs and blinked.

A mass gathering of Hardys was always Cal's signal to escape, but having smoked three cigarettes, it was a choice between coming here and actually volunteering for an extra shift in the ED. That was something he'd never done before and he didn't think this was a big enough emergency to warrant it. Of course, if anybody asked he'd been dealing with important personal matters, rather than staring at Rosie and wondering how things had taken such a dramatic turn in such a short space of time.

Fran was a mother. An actual mother. His kid sister had taken on the responsibility of another human being and most days Cal could barely claim to take responsibility for himself. There was a whole other life opening up for Fran, one where she was taking on a whole new role, a new _name_ even. Cal knew his sister and knew how she usually needed to plan her meals out for weeks at a time. He wondered if she'd been planning this all along because, if not, the painkillers were numbing more than just the physical pain.

'Because she is going to be totally freaking out right now, thanks to you,' Cal said out loud again, earning himself a gurgle seemingly in response. 'Yeah, so long as you know it.'

'Is she becoming a troublemaker already?'

Cal jumped and Max immediately apologised. 'Sorry, I didn't… I wasn't creeping up on you or anything, I was just stopping by…'

He'd been doing a lot of that today by all accounts. He'd been up to see Rosie at least twice, left his phone with Fran; given that he was almost as addicted to smoking as Cal himself was, it seemed unlikely that he'd spent much time actually working today. Cal might feel more hostile towards him if he didn't remember what he'd previously been considering about Fran: Max's life had just shifted irrevocably as well. That he wasn't sitting, rocking, in a darkened room was worthy of some respect in itself.

Still, being caught mumbling to a baby was the sort of embarrassing that Cal couldn't easily deal with, and he got to his feet uncomfortably. 'Fran wanted me to check on her,' he said by way of explanation.

'Has she still not seen her?' A frown crossed Max's face, something which looked like concern tinged with a hint of criticism. 'Is she alright?'

'She's fine.' Then, realising that it sounded as like Fran was jumping around, full of vigour and fitness, he added, 'The doctors don't want her getting out of bed until at least tomorrow though. Otherwise she'd be here.'

'Couldn't you take Rosie to her?'

Cal fought against his instincts to snap a response because of course he'd considered that option – he wasn't stupid. 'It's not quite that simple,' was his retort.

'Is something wrong with her?' And Cal felt himself momentarily soften towards Max as he took a step forward, offered the baby, his _daughter_ his finger, stroked her brow, generally loved her.

Unable to agitate the other man for any length of time, Cal said, 'No. She's fine. She's more ready to go home than Fran is.'

'Then what's the problem?'

It was the most pathetic, the most NHS of excuses. 'They're waiting for a porter to take her.'

A pause. Then Cal realised what he'd said as he took in Max's maroon polo shirt and ID badge. He felt any sense of charity towards the other man fade away in the face of appearing a fool.

'Call off the search?' the porter suggested with a smile. 'Shall I take her now?'

It was on the tip of Cal's tongue to suggest that now mightn't be the best time: Cal had only left his sister an hour ago and David Hardy was likely barely started on one of his monologues. Interrupting him wouldn't score Max many brownie points with somebody he really needed to keep on side if this bizarre set-up was ever going to work. Later might be better.

Then he closed his mouth again and gave a nod.

* * *

There was a moment, around the one hour ten minute mark, when Ethan genuinely regretted lifting the phone last night and calling home. What had seemed like the sensible mature response to a situation of pure chaos now seemed like one of the worst decisions he could have made. Certainly it hadn't done Fran much good to co-exist in a room with their father when he was in such a mood.

David Hardy loved his children. Ethan knew that, and he suspected Fran was well aware. It was shown through his interest in their lives and the way he'd paved their paths for them so that they could be everything they wanted to be. It was also shown through how personally he took any deviation from that path, as if they'd deliberately set out to upset him. Ethan's choice to attend a different university from his father's preference had been a source of much debate at the time; Fran's choice to have a baby without even mentioning it was probably worthy of a similar style of soliloquy.

He hadn't reckoned on it being this long though. Cal had beat a hasty retreat long ago, never quite comfortable in his step-father's presence. That left Ethan and Claire as the referees in this battle, or would have done if Fran was even trying to fight back. Instead, she'd sat, listening to her father's comments on 'the situation', as if this was something she deserved. Ethan hated that.

David had covered a lot of ground in the past hour, from how disruptive all of this was to Fran's career (something Ethan was certain she was already concerned enough about with his input) to how dangerous her refusal to listen to the midwife had been (which, alright, Ethan at least agreed with). Her medical notes made for good reading, and their father had read them from cover to cover with no protest from Fran. An outsider might have assumed this couldn't last much longer. Ethan knew better.

When the door finally opened, Ethan was surprised again by his relief in seeing Cal. Something about his brother always made David Hardy think twice, as if aware that, even after all of these years, he needed to consider himself more carefully around his step-son. Ethan wished he'd afford such respect to his actual flesh and blood, especially the one lying in a hospital bed.

Still, Cal was here now and perhaps that would change things.

Then Max walked in behind him. That definitely changed things.

There was a moment when the porter faltered as he saw David and Claire, and Ethan could have sworn he saw his brother smirk. Clearly not warning Max of their arrival had been tactical, and Ethan was sort of impressed. It was the sort of cunning his older brother didn't usually manage.

Then Max recovered himself and delivered the message he'd come here to deliver. 'We brought a visitor.'

And Ethan took in the cot he was pushing and realised that, in all the ways that mattered, Max had just won this entire moment. Fran's face was something he could never have described, from the way she emerged from the gloom her father had brought upon her to the way her eyes fixed upon the bundle in the cot. The porter had done precisely what she needed, what nobody else had managed: he'd brought her their daughter.

Fran let out the tiniest of whimpers, her arms shooting out for Rosie in a way which was very unlike her. Ethan had never seen her so unashamedly desperate for something before and it felt altogether too intimate to really watch, a feeling only compounded once the baby was ensconced in her mother's arms. It was going to take something special to tear Rosie away from Fran again.

Only one person seemed able to break the silence that had fallen over the room upon his entrance.

'So does that mean I can have my phone back?'

A smile flashed across Fran's face, so quickly that Ethan thought he could have imagined it. Her attention belonged solely to her daughter now, as if nobody else in the room existed. Familiar as that was, given how his sister had been incommunicado in the US for a year, Ethan felt she could have chosen her moment better. Here they all were, stood around, silent, awkward, and she was the reason for it. The least she could do was make a few introductions rather than leaving it to him.

Clearing his throat, he wondered how he was supposed to refer to Max.

'Mr and Mrs Hardy?' Max crossed the room from Fran's bedside and held his hand out in a way that even David Hardy felt compelled to shake it. 'I'm Max Walker. I'm Rosie's dad.'

Ethan glanced at his brother and knew for certain that they weren't thinking the same thing. Cal looked at Max with disdain. In contrast, all Ethan could think was how utterly the porter had owned that moment, and how nobody else had flummoxed David Hardy in that way before.

* * *

 ** _Next time: Carry You Home_**

 _'Ethan, what if I can't do this?'_

 _Fran felt rather than saw his surprise, proof that her unruffled exterior had successfully hidden the panic underneath. 'Do what?'_

 _'What if I can't be her mum?' Now the words were coming she was finding it hard to stop them. 'What if I can't be the person she needs? I… I've never been that kind of person, I'm… selfish, I'm… impatient. What if I can't cope?' Horrified, she realised her hands were shaking. 'I've spent all this time wanting to get rid of her, pass the problem on. I'm not ready, I…' She broke off and tried to catch her breath, worried that if she let the tears come, she'd never stop them._

 _Ethan left a long pause after her final words. Then, calmly, patiently, kindly, he said, 'I think that's probably normal.'_

 _Fran fiddled with her glasses and flew her fringe back from her sweaty forehead. 'Not for me,' she said in a small voice._

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'The Reason' by Hoobastank


	22. Carry You Home

**Thanks again for all the reviews - very kind of you.**

 **It'll seem like I've forgotten about Cal for the next couple of chapters; I sort of did! But he'll be back, more crass than ever, soon.**

* * *

 _When it is quiet, I know what it means and I'll carry you home. I'll carry you home._

It was strange how a few days wearing a hospital gown could make ordinary clothes seem so restrictive. Still sore and feeling far from a yummy mummy, Fran had been grateful that it was her mum and not her brothers who had delivered suitable clothes. The leggings, baggy t-shirt and cardigan were normally her cleaning-the-flat clothes and she'd certainly never been seen in public in them before. Right now, though, she was just pleased they were soft and had extremely forgiving waistbands. All those celebrities had a lot to answer for, with their instant flat stomachs and glowing complexions. She didn't know how they did it – getting dressed had been enough of a chore for her for the foreseeable future.

The trouble was, that future involved somebody else now. Somebody who was relying wholly upon her. Not for the first time since Thursday night, Fran found her solitary thoughts turning into waking nightmares. Until yesterday, she'd partially blamed the low levels of morphine that had been coursing around her system, surely enough of a deterrent for anybody with a mild interest in recreational drug use. Now, though, she was drug-free and the waves of terror still swept over her whenever she was left alone for more than five minutes.

And all because of this small person in the cot in front of her. How did such a small being engender such complete fear? Fran's rational mind couldn't grasp it. No matter how long and hard she looked at her, _her daughter_ , it still didn't quite register. The emotions which swept over her were so overwhelming they were almost painful, and she mostly thought they were positive. Ever since she'd clapped eyes on Rosie, she'd felt this unbearable need to keep her near. The past few days had been impossible; Max's photos had been a kind gesture, but she hadn't felt quite right again until she'd had her baby in her arms. Rosie already felt like such a vital part of her life, like air or water. Maybe that was what made her quite so terrifying.

Or maybe that was only part of it, Fran thought as she stared down at her sleeping daughter now. All they were waiting for now was for the arrival of the car seat which Cal had been promising all day and had yet to produce. Then their life outside of the hospital began, and the mere thought of it made her heart beat faster and her brain completely cloud over. She'd been in stressful situations before. Of course she had, she was an ED doctor. She'd worked through Ethan's accident and channelled all of her emotions about the pregnancy into being the very best doctor she could be. She prided herself on being level-headed in a crisis. Nothing had ever made her mind fog up like this.

There was a knock at the door and Fran jumped to attention.

'Am I okay to come in?' Ethan put his head around the door. Ethan and his stupid face: Fran didn't think she'd ever been so pleased to see him before.

Unable to express that joy, though, she nodded. 'Has Cal got the car-seat yet?'

'He's "working on it".' Ethan put in the inverted commas and rolled his eyes. 'He'll be here soon.'

Fran wasn't sure whether to be pleased or not. Usually her brother's inability to meet any deadlines would frustrate her. Today, she didn't know that she wouldn't like him to beat his own record at being tardy. Maybe in a few hours she'd feel ready to face the rest of her life.

'I see she's looking forward to going home,' Ethan quipped, sitting down beside Fran on the bed, his eyes trained on his new niece. 'Can barely contain her excitement.'

Fran managed a weak smile, because what else could she do when she was looking at her daughter? It was like she'd never grow tired of looking at her, as though every minute spent looking at anything else was just a waste of time. Her cheeks ached from smiling. Maybe that was why these moments of terror took her so by surprise. She was supposed to be feeling elated, unable to stop beaming. She wondered what was wrong with her.

They sat in silence for several seconds. With Ethan in the room, Fran could start to feel her heart rate slowing down. He'd always had that effect upon her. Where Cal was volatile, he was so steady, so mild-mannered. She'd almost never seen him shout. It was why he was such a great doctor. It was why Fran was able to voice what was emerging through the cloud in her mind.

'Ethan, what if I can't do this?'

She felt rather than saw his surprise, proof that her unruffled exterior had successfully hidden the panic underneath. 'Do what?'

'What if I can't be her mum?' Now the words were coming she was finding it hard to stop them. 'What if I can't be the person she needs? I… I've never been that kind of person, I'm… selfish, I'm… impatient. What if I can't cope?' Horrified, she realised her hands were shaking. 'I've spent all this time wanting to get rid of her, pass the problem on. I'm not ready, I…' She broke off and tried to catch her breath, worried that if she let the tears come, she'd never stop them.

Ethan left a long pause after her final words. Then, calmly, patiently, kindly, he said, 'I think that's probably normal.'

Fran fiddled with her glasses and flew her fringe back from her sweaty forehead. 'Not for me,' she said in a small voice.

With a wide smile, Ethan agreed with her. 'No, not for you. Maybe that's a good thing.'

Fiddling with the cuffs of her cardigan, she took a while to ask the same question again. 'What if I mess up?'

'I think most parents do. Look at ours.'

'What if I make a terrible mistake?'

'You won't.'

'How can you be so sure?' She turned to face her brother, searching his steady open face for some certainty that what he was saying was true. If anything, he looked mildly amused by her worries, and Fran hated being laughed at. Normally she'd get angry; right now, with stitches in unmentionable places and no real memory of having slept for the past twenty-four hours, she was nearer tears than shouting.

Ethan's next words almost pushed her over the edge. 'Because I've never known you fail at any job you take on.' Then, in a very un-Ethan move, he put his arm around her and pulled her head down onto his shoulder. If she had more energy, she'd have fought back; they weren't the sort of family who hugged and touched. Truthfully, though, she was too exhausted to care, and at least resting her head on his shoulder gave her a chance to hide the tears which were blurring her vision.

A rare surge of sentimentality made her say, 'I'm glad you're here.'

'Whilst we're on the subject.' Ethan cleared his throat and she lifted her head up, the moment of sibling affection over. 'About the next-of-kin thing.'

She frowned, unsure where he was going with this. Ethan usually made perfect sense, things following on logically from each other. It was Cal whose conversation took strange twists and turns and left Fran with a headache. She really didn't need one of those today.

'You've got me down as your next-of-kin.'

'Oh. Yeah.' She nodded, remembering the form she'd filled in on autopilot all that time ago.

'Well. Why?'

'Why?'

'Why did you name me instead of…?'

It took a moment for her to catch on. 'Cal? You think I should have had Cal down?'

'No! Not… should. Just… I thought you would.' He shrugged. 'You and Cal are… close.'

Fran wondered if she should tell Ethan what she thought he'd always known. Cal was her best friend in all the ways which counted: always in her court, always supporting her, no matter how grudgingly. He was a keeper of secrets. But Ethan was her brother, and that would always count for the tiniest bit more. They shared a father, an impossible father at that, and he was the only one she'd accept moaning about the demands David Hardy put upon them. She hadn't even had to make a choice as she filled that form in: Ethan's name had come naturally. Cal would always do what she wanted; Ethan would do what she needed.

'I put your name down because I knew you'd do the right thing.' She flashed him the smallest smile. 'I knew you'd call my mum.'

He returned the smile for one short second before the door crashed open again, and they both jumped. What was worse, Rosie jumped and took it to be her alarm clock.

'We got the car seat,' Caleb said, his eyebrows raised hopefully. 'We… um… we're all good to go.' Then, as Rosie's abrupt awakening led into an immediate wail, he winced. 'Bad timing?'

From behind him came Max's unmistakably dry voice. 'You might say that.'

* * *

Francesca looked pretty wrecked. Max felt guilty for even thinking that because she had, after all, pushed a human out of her in the past forty-eight hours, but she'd somehow looked different against the hospital bed. Outside in the real world, with regular well people around, her skin looked translucent and the shadows underneath her eyes made them look sunken in their sockets. Even her usually immaculate hair looked sorry for itself. She was a very different person from the woman who had walked into the lift beside him two days ago. He felt even guiltier for thinking that he sort of liked that.

What he didn't like was how faint she was looking as they stood in the car park and argued over something as petty as whose car they were going to take. He couldn't help thinking that both Cal and Ethan, as well as Francesca's parents having driven to the hospital was not only wasteful, it was entirely idiotic: had they never heard of lift-sharing? Now nobody could quite decide which car would be best to load up with Francesca, baby and all of the paraphernalia that went with them. And this was all before Max had introduced the twist in the tale.

'It will only fit Fran's car?' Cal looked at Max as though the quirks of car seat manufacturing were entirely his fault.

'That's what they said in the shop.' He shrugged. 'It's a safety thing.'

Cal rolled his eyes, before Ethan said, matter-of-factly, 'Well, that settles it then.' When everybody looked at him, he added, 'I assume your car is still in the car park?'

'Yeah…' Francesca's voice tailed off.

'Decision made. We can meet you at the flat. I'll help you get the car seat fitted.'

Max had to admire the efficiency with which the argument had been resolved. His rag-tag family would have made it last much longer, probably exploding into fireworks and tears at some point. Robyn would likely have called Simon a moron by now, before Charlotte would have pulled her phone out and texted passively-aggressively. It was a strange thing that he sort of _missed_ that passion right now; Francesca's family were too clinical for his liking.

So clinical that they didn't seem to have noticed how Francesca didn't seem thrilled to have been nominated as the designated driver, which was strange because he knew how much she liked being the one in the driving seat. Being a passenger probably didn't sit very well with her need to be in control. Yet he couldn't ignore the way she'd pulled her cardigan ever tighter around herself, as if she was wrapping herself up against reality.

'You alright?' he asked gently, because it didn't seem that anybody else would. Indeed, her father seemed surprised to find that his daughter _wasn't_ alright, because it seemed she always had been before. Being not-alright was clearly something Hardys didn't do.

'Yes!' Panic flashed across her face. Then, as he gazed at her, willing her to trust him, she added, 'I just… I'm not sure I can drive. I mean, I'm really tired and…' She tailed off, and Max was reminded of those really not safe for work images, and couldn't help himself wincing.

That threw them into a fresh bout of confusion. Maybe people like them didn't come up against obstructions in life. Max knew money didn't buy happiness, and they weren't royalty, but he expected that Mr Hardy's private surgery turned a nice profit and had helped to smooth life for the three of them, even Cal. They certainly didn't seem able to cope with this bump in the road.

Whereas Max, whilst having grown up far from destitute, had become creative as he'd bounced from one entry-level job to another. He thought outside the box so often he might as well have taken up permanent residency there, which wasn't much use to him in his day job, but might prevent Francesca from a dramatic collapse in the hospital car park.

'I can drive.'

It was almost amusing to see everybody swing from looking at Francesca to looking at him. Cal looked mildly irritated, as though Max's offer had in some way offended him. Mr Hardy, meanwhile, looked more surprised, as though Max having a driving licence was outside the normal realm of things. He thought he probably shouldn't admit that he hadn't driven since he'd written off his brother's car over five years ago; those were the sort of details parents didn't need to know.

'You don't have to,' Cal said. 'I can do it. Ethan will bring me back to pick up my car later, right?'

'Yeah, sure.' Ethan nodded, but didn't look enamoured with being his brother's taxi service.

'So it's fine.'

Max shifted his gaze back to Francesca and raised his eyebrows.

'Max can drive.' As if she knew Cal was about to protest, she said, 'My insurance will cover him. Can we just get home?' and started walking towards where she'd left her car two days earlier.

Max did what he'd wanted to since they'd walked out of the hospital, relieving Ethan of the dead weight of car seat plus Rosie. He gave the whole family an apologetic smile, acting as though Francesca was to blame for this, and followed her. Secretly, he couldn't help being pleased to have a break from Hardyville, something he suspected Francesca might be experiencing too.

Francesca's car was a boringly average Ford Focus, very urban family rather than single upwardly mobile young doctor. He supposed that was a good thing as he wrestled with the car seat; this would all be much more difficult if he had to climb into the backseat of some sporty little number. Even so, he was aware he wasn't making a good job of it, something only compounded by judging stares from two sets of eyes: like mother like daughter.

Finally, he heard two snaps as had been described in the manual he'd studied at some length this morning. It was the reason he'd been so late arriving at the hospital today; he'd always been terrible for a bit of last-minute revision and had nearly missed one of his A Level exams entirely.

'Ta-dah!' he announced delightedly, turning to grin at Francesca.

Who merely gave one more concerned look towards her daughter before getting into the passenger seat.

Max pulled a face at Rosie, which was met with much the same derision, before shutting the back door and getting into the driver's seat. He didn't know what made him say what he said next.

'Probably a bad time to mention I wrote off the last car I drove?'

Francesca was jerked out of her zombie-like state long enough to give him a horrified look. Hastily backtracking, he said, 'I was only joking. Sorry.' When no response came from her, he slid the key into the ignition and started the engine.

Immediately, his eardrums were assaulted by music he hadn't heard since he was young enough to actually think it was good.

'What is this?' he demanded, immediately turning the stereo off and pulling out the CD.

'Pure Garage Anthems.'

He might have laughed at the incongruity of this conversation if his ears weren't still ringing; here he was, sitting next to an exhausted Francesca Hardy, in her car, with their daughter in the backseat, and they were discussing garage music. Sometimes he really wondered where the hidden cameras were.

'And you… listen to this?'

Her only response was to furrow her brow at him.

'I just… didn't have you down as an urban music fan.' He hoped she wouldn't ask what he had had her down as, because he all of a sudden didn't know. Before yesterday, he'd have said some sort of classical music, the sort of music he had no real conception of, nor wished to. Now, he had no clue who the mother of his child really was. That scared him much less than he thought it should have done.

Now, with no comeback arising from the seat next to him, and no protests from behind, he slipped the car into gear and pulled out of the car park, smoothly even by his own admission. He'd expected it to be more of a re-learning curve; perhaps he had enough else going on in his head for driving after five years in the passenger seat to be the least of his problems.

After a few minutes of silence, he ventured to say, 'I'll need directions. I… don't actually know where you live.' He gave a brief laugh to acknowledge how ridiculous that was. Francesca said nothing more than to give him an address.

So silence fell over the car again. Rosie, who had been so vocal as they left the hospital, had ceased her crying and had presumably dozed off. That was probably a good recommendation for Max's driving abilities, though he wasn't sure a newborn's recommendation counted for much, and he sort of wished she was at least making some kind of light mewling sound; the silence in the car was oppressive.

A need to say something forced him to say, 'Your mum seems nice.' In the brief conversation he'd had with her, which had mainly been him trying to avoid annoying her dad. Most people would have seemed nice in comparison with the almost wordless interrogation from Mr Hardy. Max had a feeling he had more business with that particular parent.

Then, still not getting any response from the body next to him, he asked, 'Is she staying with you for a bit?'

As though it took all of her energy to answer, she said, 'Yes.'

He nodded. 'And your dad?'

'I expect so.'

He nodded again. That at least gave him some prior warning to prepare an answer to a question along the lines of 'what are your intentions towards my daughter?' Never mind the fact that he'd _had_ no particular intentions towards her, and still didn't, not really.

The grand-daughter was a different matter though, and Max couldn't contain himself any longer.

'About Rosie-'

'Are we going straight home?'

She'd said so little so far that the interruption was unexpected. It took him a few seconds to think of what exactly he could say, when he'd thought that was what she wanted. Still, it was, he thought now, a woman's prerogative to change her mind. And she had form for doing exactly that in Max's experience.

So he didn't criticise her. Instead, he asked, 'Where do you want to go?', even as he hovered at the next logical turning for her flat. It would only be a matter of seconds before the driver behind him hit their horn.

It took a long moment for her to reply, 'Somewhere my dad isn't?' She threw him the weakest of smiles. 'I just…' The driver behind lost his patience, and they both jumped. Rubbing her forehead distractedly, she said, 'Sorry.'

Max resisted the urge to swear at the guy behind him. 'No, you're fine. You don't need to apologise.' He flicked his indicator off and continued down the road. 'Believe me, you've not met my mum yet. That'll really make you want to drive and keep on driving.' He was heartened to hear the smallest burst of laughter from beside him. Making people laugh was his raison d'etre: he was pleased he still had it.

'You're really selling her to me.'

'You don't need to buy her, I'd give her to you for free.' Another laugh. 'That's better.' When she threw him a questioning look, he hesitantly tried being truthful. 'You're not exactly radiating that happy maternal glow,' he said, mimicking the sickly sweet tones from formula and nappy adverts. Glancing over at her, he added, 'You sure you're okay?'

'I'm just tired and… sore… and… sharing far too much. Sorry.' She placed a hand over her mouth, as though that would hold in some of the many words she had trapped within there.

'You're alright. I've got three sisters. I hear a lot.' There was no immediate reply from beside him, but he became aware of her looking at him. One quick glance over showed her aiming a small smile towards him. 'What?'

'Thank you.'

'For what?

'For this. For… rescuing me.' She sighed again. 'It's not that I don't love them all, I do, they're… great. I just needed a few minutes to…' She tailed off again, and Max appreciated that. If she was feeling anything like he was, she was entitled to more than a few minutes just to _be_ , without anybody demanding anything more of her.

'Any time.' He glanced in his rear view mirror. 'How's the backseat driver?'

She glanced over her shoulder. 'Looking much like a car seat.'

He grinned. 'Do we assume that silence is a good thing where she's concerned?'

'Given how she woke up three times last night, I'd say yes.'

Max immediately felt guilty, as Francesca yawned. Her sleepless night was completely at odds with the semi-coma he'd fallen into as soon his shift was over yesterday.

'I'm sure she'll behave herself tonight,' he asserted, completely emptily because his only knowledge of babies came from friends who claimed that they hadn't slept in the four years since their little darling had been born. It had always sounded like complete hell on earth; the only sleepless nights Max liked involved alcohol, music and an array of interesting people. It still sounded horrific, but then he thought about what it was all about, and he found himself making an offer he wouldn't have been able to imagine a week ago.

'I could stay over tonight… if that helps…' Then, hearing his words aloud, he added, 'On the sofa… to help with Rosie… not…'

'I should hope not.' He was heartened to see Francesca smile again. 'Thanks, but…'

'No thanks?'

'I've got my mum.'

'Yeah. Sure.' He didn't know why he sounded quite so irritated at being gifted a night of sleep. 'Well, I was only offering anyway.'

'I know. Thank you.' Then, in a rush, she said, 'I meant what I said yesterday, Max, I do want you to be a part of her life, just-'

'Just not tonight?' He relented a little and gave a smile. 'It's okay, Francesca. Maybe another night?'

'Definitely.' She flashed him another smile, before adding, 'And… it's Fran.'

'Right. Okay. Fran.'

* * *

It was five in the evening and Ethan felt like it was at least ten. The past few days had stretched out into some weird amorphous time where he was unable to quite identify what had happened on which day. There was something comforting about being back in a domestic setting, even if it was Francesca's tiny flat where he'd never been invited before. Actually leaving the hospital at least gave some shape to the day.

There was a brief period of calm, however fraught with anxiety. Rosie had been crying off and on all afternoon; Ethan had never appreciated how demanding babies could be until he'd seen his sister attend to her daughter so frequently. Even when the baby had lapsed into moments of quiet, Fran had continued to sit, on tenterhooks for the next time Rosie might need her. She'd only gone to bed when her mother had insisted upon it. Not for the first time, Ethan was glad he'd called his dad and step-mum.

So now, with both Fran and Rosie asleep, the rest of the family found themselves squashed together in the flat. Cal reacted how he always had done: by turning on the television and losing himself in some mindless show which was far below his intelligence. Ethan might have been cross with his brother for escaping if he wasn't so tired; he didn't have the energy to waste on Cal's mental absence.

His dad and Claire were in the kitchen, ostensibly putting together something for dinner from the groceries they'd collected on the way from the hospital. In reality, Ethan could imagine what was being said behind the closed door, and it was with a heavy sigh that he entered the fray, preparing himself to stick up for Fran wherever possible.

The conversation stopped as he opened the door, and his dad turned to look at him.

Claire flashed him a quick smile. 'Are you going to stay for something to eat?'

'I don't have to,' Ethan began, still unsure if he was invited after all of these years.

Claire's smile deepened. 'I'll make enough for you and Caleb. It'll be nice for us to have a proper catch-up.'

'How long have you known about this?' His dad's sudden change of subject was less surprising that it might have been, because Ethan had been expecting this ever since he'd lifted the phone two days ago and broken the news that Fran was in hospital and so was her baby. David Hardy wasn't known for his patience, so it was impressive that he'd held off for this long.

Folding his arms, Ethan said as vaguely as he could, 'A while.' Then, under his dad's glare he said, 'Since December.'

'December!'

'David!' Claire shot him a warning look. 'You'll wake them up.'

'You came home for Christmas and you never said anything!'

'She didn't want me to.'

'She said that?'

'Yes, actually.' Ethan readjusted his glasses.

That prompted a moment of silence as his father took in the fact that his beloved princess had kept something secret from him.

'Was she worried we'd be angry?' Claire asked, and Ethan's already battered emotions took yet another hit as looked at his step-mum's face. Fran's omissions of the truth had been to avoid a scenario like this, and she'd have succeeded if it wasn't for a faulty lift and a dramatic change of heart. He wondered if her earlier anxiety was fuelled, not by fear of future failings, but for the fact she'd not followed through with her plans. For Fran, that was probably almost as terrifying as having a whole other life now relying upon her.

But she'd cut her mum out too, and Claire was everything their father wasn't: calm and patient and forgiving and realistic. It had to hurt that her own daughter had forgotten that about her.

So Ethan glossed over that. 'She didn't want anyone to know. Not until she'd made some decisions anyway and then…' He tailed off, because he wasn't sure if Fran had broken the news that she'd half-signed away their first grandchild.

'And who's this Max anyway? He's a porter?'

Ethan tried to ignore the derision in his father's tone. 'He works in the same department as us.'

'And they were… _dating_?'

'Not exactly.' At his dad's snort of further disgust, Ethan added, 'He's a nice guy.' He hadn't really known he felt that until just then, but he'd had long enough to weigh up the evidence and it was the only conclusion he could come to. Max had given him no evidence to the contrary and, in the circumstances, somebody needed to believe that of him. Cal and their dad, and especially Fran, had given him a hard time over the past few months. Ethan felt he needed somebody from Team Hardy in his court.

'Do nice guys routinely impregnate strangers then?'

'David!' Claire scolded again. 'Calm down.'

'Does it not bother you that your only daughter has just ruined her career?'

'Don't be overdramatic, Dad!'

Claire cut through both of their voices. 'No, not really,' she said, with far more fire than Ethan had ever seen in her before; maybe this was where Fran got it from, not their dad after all. It would explain why Ethan himself was rather deficient in that department. 'Given that two days ago I thought we might be about to lose her, her career is the least of my worries right now.'

Ethan's dad looked sheepish at that. 'You know that's not what I mean, Claire,' he said, but his words were quieter than before. 'You know I-'

'She doesn't need your approval,' Claire continued. 'She's twenty-eight, not eighteen. And yes, I wish this had happened differently. I wish she was married, or at least in a proper relationship. But she's not, and she's got a beautiful daughter, your granddaughter, and she's _healthy_. If Ethan says Max is a nice guy, I believe him.'

It was about the longest speech Ethan had ever heard his step-mother give, and there was a long pause after she'd finished.

'I'm going to see if she's awake,' she said finally, seemingly embarrassed by her own forthrightness. 'Put the kettle on for some tea. We could all do with a cup.'

Ethan was gratified to see his father, the usually so fierce David Hardy, doing as his wife asked and flicking the switch.

* * *

Fran wondered if this was how it would always be from now on: lying motionless, so tired that nothing made sense anymore, and yet unable to let go. Every inch of her body was attuned to what was going on beyond the bedroom walls. To be specific, what was going on in the cot on the other side of those walls. If this was the future, it was even scarier than she'd imagined.

Two hours she'd been lying there. Sleep was a million miles from here but the thought of getting up was beyond her. Sitting in tense silence, her father scrutinising her every move… this was why she'd kept them all at arms' length for the past nine months.

The door was pushed open.

Instantly, Fran sat up, wincing but able to manage, 'Is Rosie okay?'

Her mum smiled. 'She's fine. Fast asleep. Relax.' Looking at her daughter critically, Claire said, 'How are you?'

'Fine.'

Claire pursed her lips but said nothing, focusing instead upon what had been happening outside of the bedroom. 'I'm making spaghetti bolognaise if you want some.'

It wasn't lost on Fran that this was the meal her mum used to cook whenever Fran was feeling down. At fourteen, it had cured most ills, from low test scores to a spot on school picture day. Claire's bolognaise was basically family legend.

'I think Ethan and Cal are going to stay as well,' Claire continued. 'That'll be nice. All of us together.'

'Is Dad still angry with me?' Fran was taken aback by the words, but her mum didn't seem to be. In fact, she seemed to have been expecting them.

Shaking her head, Claire said, 'No. He's not angry with you. He's… upset. Hurt. A bit disappointed. But he's not angry. How could he be? You've just given him his first grand-child.'

In a small voice, Fran said, 'What about you?'

'Me?'

'Are you… angry with me?'

'I have never been angry with you. You've never given me a reason to be.' Claire sat down on the bed next to her. 'What I am is a little confused and… upset. Why couldn't you tell me?'

Fran shrugged awkwardly. When her mum was less than a foot away from her, she didn't have much of an answer. It was true; Claire had never shown any sign of being angry with Fran, no matter what she'd done. Where David Hardy had shown his irritations with broken curfews (one time) and less than perfect test results (less than five), Claire had always been quieter, more patient, kinder somehow. That Fran had forgotten all of this was testament to how much the past year had upset her usual balance.

With no answer forthcoming, Claire asked a slightly different one. 'Were you ever going to tell us?'

Unable to lie, it only took a few seconds for Fran to shake her head miserably. She saw a split second of pain wash over her mother's face before it was gone forever.

Briskly, Claire said, 'Well, I can tell you one thing. I've never been quite so grateful for those brothers of yours.'

Fran felt it needed saying. 'I'm sorry.'

Claire patted her leg through the duvet. 'You don't need to say that. You're okay – you're _both_ okay. That's what matters to me.'

It sounded so simple. Everything seemed simple when her mum was around. Fran wondered where that came from, whether she'd ever have the ability to be so unfazed by whatever Rosie threw at her. The baby was only a couple of days old, couldn't even move herself around, and Fran felt like she was floundering. She had no idea how she'd cope when her daughter started crawling, walking, going to school…

'One day at a time.' Claire gave her daughter a small smile, as if she could read every single thought flashing through Fran's mind. 'That's how you do it. I know that's not going to be easy. You've been a planner since the moment you were born.'

'I didn't plan for this,' Fran admitted.

'I guessed as much.' Claire let out a small laugh. 'Not even so much as a nappy or baby-grow in sight. And don't worry,' she added, as her daughter began to panic again. 'We're sorting it.'

'You are?' Fran frowned. 'How?'

'Your father and I have had a baby before, you know,' Claire teased. 'We do know our way around MotherCare. It's not everything but it'll get you through until you feel up to going out yourself.'

Leaving the flat was something Fran couldn't begin to imagine. Now she was here, she was staying, so she hoped whatever supplies her parents had provided were substantial. It was the sort of gesture which required far more than, 'Thank you.'

'Just promise me one thing,' Claire said, more seriously than she usually spoke, so much so that Fran nodded before she'd even clarified. 'Don't do something like this again. Don't… shut me and your dad out.'

It was easy to agree. 'I won't.'

'So,' Claire said after a pause, standing up. 'Max seems nice.'

The abrupt change of subject made Fran frown. 'He's… okay,' she said cagily.

'There's enough bolognaise for him as well if you wanted to invite him.'

'No, he's… busy. I mean, he's…' She shook her head, unable to explain exactly why Max being here tonight was impossible. 'He can't make it tonight.'

'Perhaps another time then?'

Fran nodded noncommittally.

'I'll call you when it's ready.'

* * *

 ** _Next time: Picture of You_**

 _Before David could reply, Fran said, 'Dad thinks I need to draw up a proper contract for Max's access rights.'_

 _'I think it would be wise, under the circumstances.' That extra dig at the end was unnecessary but very David, Ethan thought. He might have stopped openly criticising his only daughter for her uncharacteristic behaviour, but it wouldn't stop these little comments filtering through. It left everybody in no doubt about his true feelings._

 _'I'm not talking about anything complicated,' he continued. 'Just a brief simple contract outlining his responsibilities and rights. It's a good idea for him as well. This way nobody can say they don't know where they stand.'_

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'Carry You Home' by James Blunt (who I love so let's not hate on him)


	23. Picture of You

**Sorry for longer wait than usual between chapters - been so exhausted from work lately that anything more than blindly staring at the TV has been beyond me. Hope this is worth the wait.**

* * *

 _I had a picture of you in my mind, never knew it could be so wrong. Why'd it take me so long just to find the friend that was there all along?_

Whoever invented junk texts had a lot to answer for, Max thought, as he pounced on his phone only to be rewarded with yet another advert for cheap pizza. He liked pizza as much as the next man, but this wasn't why he'd been given two weeks off from work. Deleting the message, he put the phone back down on the arm of the sofa and slumped down again.

'Will you just call her?'

He lifted his gaze from the mindless TV show to glance at his step-sister who looked just as weary as he felt. 'What?'

'Call Francesca. She's obviously not texting you back, so what choice have you got?'

She made a fair point. Two text messages a day for seven days and not a single acknowledgement. He could make a hundred excuses for her: a new baby, getting over her operation, tiredness, having her parents to stay. Yet even he couldn't believe that there hadn't been a spare minute in the past week when Francesca – Fran – couldn't have typed out a reply of some kind. He wasn't expecting _War and Peace_ , but a few smiley faces and an update on Rosie surely wouldn't have killed her. When he'd said he wanted to be involved, he'd thought she'd agreed. Now he wondered if he'd misunderstood.

He opened his mouth to wonder that aloud.

'You've got rights.' Robyn shut him down. 'You're the father. You could have her taken to court for denying you access if you wanted to.'

'She's not denying me access.' She wasn't doing anything as far as he could see. He doubted the court would see apathy as a real offence.

'Well, she's not _encouraging_ it,' his step-sister shot back. Then, making a lunge for his phone, she said, 'If you won't call her, I will.'

Swiping the phone back into his possession, he held it out of her reach. Robyn's intervention was well meant but would only make things worse, if that was possible. The sensitivity she was able to employ at work on a daily basis faded whenever Fran's name was mentioned. It was what ultimately made Robyn such a good sister: if somebody wronged one of her siblings, blood relative or otherwise, she'd hold a grudge longer than any of them were able to. It was both a blessing and a curse.

'What are you going to do, Max? Just sit around waiting for her to call you? Because if that's what you're waiting for, Rosie might be the one calling you at this rate.'

An exaggeration but he could sort of see her point. A week was a long time, or at least felt like one in the life of a new father. Max wasn't even sure if he could call himself that. Beyond a few cuddles in the hospital and the purchase of a car seat, he'd done nothing to earn that title. Even his paternity leave was turning into a joke; the only way he was helping Fran, as Tess had instructed him to, was by keeping out from underneath her feet. Maybe that was what she wanted. He wasn't sure he'd be much use anyway; he knew nothing about babies. That he'd been able to feed Rosie and change her nappy once had been more fluke than anything, and he wasn't sure he was going to be able to repeat that even if he was given the opportunity. Perhaps it was enough to know that she was safe and with her mum, and not with complete strangers as the original plan had been. This wasn't so different to how things would have been if Fran had followed through with the adoption; maybe he should count his blessings.

'Max!'

'What do I say if I do call her?' he asked. 'I don't even know what I'm asking.'

'You could start with 'Hi'.'

He gave her a dirty look. 'Funny. I mean, am I asking to see her, or to… _have_ her for the afternoon, or what?'

'You're not asking me this. She's your _daughter_. Time to take some responsibility, Max. And anyway, you're not asking, she doesn't get to grant you permission.'

He supposed Robyn was right. He knew parental rights was one of the few places that equality had swung entirely the other way, privileging women over men, but that didn't mean that he didn't have some legal standing in seeing his own daughter. Fran had no right to keep him from seeing her. He'd gone over these arguments again and again over the past week, fired himself up to do _something –_ and then found himself unsure exactly what. It was a feeling he was familiar with in life.

'Maybe I should text her again.'

'So she can ignore you again?'

'Phoning her just seems… wrong,' he shrugged. He'd never spoken to her on the phone before, the mother of his child, and he didn't know how he'd say it, how he'd voice everything he was feeling. The texts had been nothings, throwaway check-ins and meaningless questions. A phone call was something different, something altogether more intense. Besides, he somehow expected Fran wouldn't be good on the phone. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel uncomfortable.

But, 'What else are you going to do?' Robyn demanded.

A good question. A fair question. The question that needed asking. If she wasn't texting back and he wasn't going to call her, what was he going to do?

'I'll go round.' He stood up, that fire fuelling him to move towards the door before he could second guess himself. 'I'll go and see her.'

* * *

As step-mothers went, Ethan knew that he and Cal had lucked out. Claire was the most unlikely stealer of husbands he could have imagined, something only emphasised by how she'd wanted to embrace David's ready-made family. Ethan couldn't remember a time when they hadn't been included alongside Fran, never being made to feel as though they were intruding. If he'd ever been in doubt of Claire's affections towards her step-sons, he only needed to look at how she'd spent more time than was necessary listening to his anxieties about his mother's death last year; that was dedication on a whole other level.

Still, he didn't think he'd ever seen her look so relieved to see him as she opened Fran's front door.

'Something wrong?' he asked, as she let out a deep sigh. Behind her, he could hear his father's voice, sounding too serious for this time of the morning. He'd forgotten how David Hardy liked to lecture over breakfast. In the circumstances, Claire's weary nod of the head seemed to make sense.

So too did Fran's glazed expression. Ethan was struck again by how young she'd seemed since Rosie had come along. It seemed she'd been an adult since she was about thirteen, with her immaculate make-up and professionally perfect attitude. In leggings and an oversized t-shirt, she looked more vulnerable, something only exacerbated by the exhaustion on her face. For the first time, Ethan wondered if her parents being here hadn't been more of a hindrance than anything else, especially if their father had been going on at her as he seemed to be doing this morning.

'All I'm saying is,' David was saying now, in his customary phrase which sounded like a conclusion but indicated he had at least ten minutes left in him, 'you need to think carefully about this. You need things to be organised properly. And legally.'

Ethan frowned, but chose not to jump in just yet. Fran raised her head and acknowledged him, before studying the floor again. It seemed this monologue had already been going on for a while.

'It doesn't have to be complicated, Francesca, but it does need to be sorted. I'll get our solicitor onto it.'

'Onto what?' Ethan could hold back no more. Whenever his father started talking about solicitors, alarm bells began ringing. 'What does Fran need a solicitor for?'

Before David could reply, Fran said, 'Dad thinks I need to draw up a proper contract for Max's access rights.'

'I think it would be wise, under the circumstances.' That extra dig at the end was unnecessary but very David, Ethan thought. He might have stopped openly criticising his only daughter for her uncharacteristic behaviour, but it wouldn't stop these little comments filtering through. It left everybody in no doubt about his true feelings.

'I'm not talking about anything complicated,' he continued. 'Just a brief simple contract outlining his responsibilities and rights. It's a good idea for him as well. This way nobody can say they don't know where they stand.'

'He's said he wants to be a part of her life,' Fran said, in a very small voice. Ethan had forgotten that about her; no matter how decisive and confident she seemed in her professional life, minutes in her dad's company left her cowed and unsure. He supposed he was the same. Things always seemed more high-stake when his dad was breathing down his neck.

'Of course he's saying that now. And I'm not saying I don't believe him. But… things change.'

'What things?' Fran lifted her head. If Ethan hadn't known better, he might have described the look on her face as naivety. Fran had never been naïve, even as a child. Yet written all over her face was a genuine bewilderment that anybody's feelings towards Rosie could ever be any different than they were right now. He supposed that was what made mothers stand by their children through everything: a disbelief that anybody could fall out of love with them.

'Well, life.' David gestured vaguely. 'He could need to move away… for… work. Or he could meet somebody else, have a family of his own. There's dozens of things. And when those things happen, I think everybody should be clear of the expectations.'

Fran fiddled with the cuffs of her cardigan. 'He's her dad. He wouldn't just… forget about her.'

'He seems genuine, Dad.' Ethan was surprised to find himself sticking up for Max once again. True, he'd never felt the depth of dislike that Cal had professed to harbour since Fran had become pregnant, but he would never have imagined him defending the guy who had contributed toward his little sister going on such a spiralling journey. In the face of David's suspicion, though, he felt somebody ought to say something.

'He might be. For now. I just think you need to be prepared for all eventualities.' Then, irritated at both his children's refusal to agree with him unconditionally, he said, 'Look, I don't think either of you really remember when Cal's father upped and left, do you? If you did, I don't think either of you would be presuming that Max's promises now will be true in a year's time.'

Ethan blinked. Cal's father was a non-topic in their family. Even Cal never spoke of him, seemingly showing no interest. The only indication that his near-orphan status was on his radar was the way he referred to David as his step-father. Which must hurt, Ethan thought now, looking at his father, who had always treated Cal as his own; even Lannister House had been open to Cal, if he hadn't so openly expressed a disinterest in going. Through everything, David had supported him, in lieu of the father who had abandoned him. Now, Ethan wondered how different things might have been if Andrew Knight had stayed around beyond his son's ninth Christmas. How different Cal might have been, whether the anger he disguised as carefree recklessness would still be there, whether he'd be kinder to the women who queued up to adore him. Looked at like that, he could see his dad's point: maybe Max's nice-guy promises weren't enough.

The doorbell interrupted the silence that followed David's words. Fran's groan at the noise seemed incongruous – until Ethan heard the wail from her bedroom.

'She hates the doorbell,' Fran said by way of explanation, before leaving the room, the demands of her daughter trumping the demands of her father.

'Ethan, could you…?' Claire said, her first words since she'd let him in. 'We're popular today.'

Ethan nodded. If the conversation he'd stumbled into was anything to go by, Claire had every right to sound fed up. The least he could do was open the front door.

He wasn't prepared for the subject of their discussion to be on the other side.

'Hi.' Max too seemed surprised. 'I didn't know…' He pointed between himself and Ethan and vaguely over Ethan's shoulder, before concluding, 'I can come back later.' A fresh wail from the flat broke through. Max's eyebrows shot up. 'Is that Rosie?'

Ethan had to bite back a sarcastic comment. 'Yes.'

'I didn't know she was so loud.'

Smiling politely, Ethan nodded. 'She can be… quite loud, yes.' _Something you'd know if you'd been around in the past week_ , he thought, horrified at how quickly David's words had worked upon him.

Max nodded. 'Look, I can see you're all busy so I won't interrupt.' _Typical_. 'Could you just pass on a message to Fran for me?'

Ethan wasn't sure when he'd been given permission to call her by the diminutive name she only revealed to her nearest and dearest, but he chose to ignore it. 'Of course.'

'When she gets a chance, could she answer one of my texts? I know she's busy and I'm not trying to be difficult. Just… if she could let me know when it's good for me to come round and… see Rosie?'

It took several seconds for Ethan's biased mind to process what he was hearing. Of course: Max had been in touch over the past week. Of course: Fran hadn't responded. Of course: they'd been unfairly judging him for his absence when the real cause of it was ploughing through things in determined isolation, just like she always did. Maybe it wasn't Max who needed the contract after all, but Fran herself, to remind her that she wasn't in this alone.

By the time his thoughts found words, Max had half-turned away from the door. 'Why don't you come in?'

'Really?' Max wasn't faking that enthusiasm. Even as he asked, 'Are you sure?' he was halfway inside the door. 'You're sure she won't mind?'

There was no need to ask who 'she' was; Ethan wasn't sure how, but his sister seemed to instil fear into every man she came across. 'No, of course she won't,' he insisted, not knowing anything of the sort. 'She might be grateful.'

Gratitude wasn't the first thing he saw on his sister's face when they returned to the living room to find her unsuccessfully comforting a seemingly-devastated Rosie. Rather, she looked horrified for an outsider, even Max (maybe _especially_ Max, Ethan mused) to be witnessing her at her scruffiest and most inept. This was a world away from the Doctor Francesca Hardy she liked people to see.

'Max! Hello!' Claire greeted him in lieu of either Fran or David bothering. 'How are you?'

'I'm fine thanks.' Awkwardly, Max ventured a half-wave at Fran. 'Hi Fran.'

Ethan willed his sister to say something normal.

'She doesn't like the doorbell.'

Ethan winced.

'Sorry, I… didn't know.' Then, as if this was a normal conversation, Max added, 'Do you want me to have a go?' He gestured towards the screaming baby. 'I mean, I don't know that I'll be any good at it, but… I could try?'

'What a good idea,' Claire answered for her daughter. 'Don't you think, Fran?'

It took a moment of her staring at Max before she nodded slowly. She handed her daughter over, a look of anxiety written into every inch of her features as Max cradled her gently against his chest. Ethan thought moments like this only happened in films as, within seconds, Rosie's wails had faded to snuffles.

To Max's credit, he looked embarrassed. 'Must be a fluke. A novelty. Like opening jars. Not that she's like a jar.'

Ethan wondered if he was imagining things or if that was actually a smile on Fran's face. They were so rare anyway, and had been rarer in the days since she'd got home from the hospital, that he thought he must be, especially as she followed it up with, 'What did you want?'

Max didn't miss a beat. 'I wondered when I could see Rosie. I know you've been busy. I got impatient.' Then, 'Do you want me to have her for a bit?'

Ethan wasn't sure who was more surprised, Fran, David or Max himself. It was the very boldest of offers, one that not even Claire had ventured to make, implying as it did that Fran might, possibly, perhaps need a break from motherhood. Fran didn't need breaks or help or anything akin to that, so nobody had offered to even give her so much as twenty minutes when Rosie wasn't in the forefront of her mind. Ethan felt guilty about that now, even as Fran shook her head.

'It's fine.'

'I don't mind.'

'You don't have to.'

'I'd like to. So… _can_ I have her for a bit?'

That was a different proposition altogether, yet one Fran seemed even more reluctant to accept. There was the other side of the coin, Ethan thought; not only would her in-built desire for success stop her from accepting help, letting her daughter out of her sight seemed to be something she couldn't even begin to contemplate. It was only at times like these that he realised quite how changed his sister had been in the past week.

'Why don't you _both_ take her out for a bit?' Claire said. 'It's a nice day and she could do with the fresh air. And so could you,' she added to Fran. 'Nice walk in the park or something.'

Just as Fran was about to start prevaricating, Max said, 'Sounds good to me. Ready whenever you are.'

It was the sort of challenge that Ethan knew his sister would never be able to resist.

* * *

Fran felt disgusting. Somehow, being outside and around real people made her own hideousness only more obvious to her. Personal hygiene had sunk to an all-time low, concentrating on the basics of showering and brushing her teeth. Her hair was at least seventy-per-cent dry shampoo, whilst she was well aware that her skin was firmly into its post-pregnancy break-out. In any other circumstances, she would never have set foot outside of her flat before a crack-team of daytime TV make-over specialists had spent five hours working upon her.

Instead, here she was, in a park, her hair bundled up into a ponytail, her face exposed to the elements. It was not how she'd planned on spending today and somewhere inside of her she was certain she was still resentful of being all but pushed out of the door. Mostly, though, she felt relief that she was out of the pressure cooker of her flat and that Rosie wasn't screaming. The relative peace of a park at eleven-thirty in the morning was something she'd never appreciated before.

They'd walked in silence from her flat to the park, Max pushing the buggy with varying degrees of success. Somehow, a near collision with a parked car hadn't bothered Rosie in the slightest, and she'd immediately fallen asleep, as though she was the easiest baby in the world. Even as Fran was grateful for the peace, she was dreading the afternoon and evening; any claim she'd ever read that new-born babies were relatively straightforward was a lie. If they were true, she wondered what it was relative to, and how she'd cope.

She'd forgotten what the world outside was like in the past few days. As her tiny flat had filled with people, all of them meaning well but all of them heightening the sense of panic inside her chest that she wasn't doing this properly, life outside had become increasingly distant. Now, walking through the park, she was surprised to find it was still summer; the past week had been so long, she was sure whole seasons must have gone by. But the sun was shining and the trees were bursting with life. For the first time in several days, Fran felt able to breathe.

Then she realised she'd been walking on by herself.

Panicked, she turned around to find Max sitting on a bench and Rosie's buggy safely next to him. He'd even managed to get the brakes on. Fran wondered how he'd slipped into the role so effortlessly.

Trying to deflect from her feelings of inadequacy, she said, 'I thought we were going for a walk in the park.'

'We've walked,' he shrugged. 'Time for a rest?'

'Exercise really isn't your thing, is it?' she remarked, even as she found she was partially pleased for the excuse to sit down; this was the most activity she'd done in months.

'Have a sit.' He thumped the bench next to him and winced, shaking his hand. 'On this _incredibly_ solid bench.'

Fran found herself smirking as she sat down next to him. Then she turned her attention back to Rosie. 'Is she okay?'

'Fast asleep. Clearly her daddy bores her that much. She is sometimes awake, right?'

 _A lot_ , Fran thought, but answered him, 'Of course.' The last person she needed to know she was finding things difficult was Max. 'She's not cold is she?'

'It's twenty-two degrees, I doubt it.' Then he added, 'Aren't you hot in that cardigan?'

She was, but it covered up a multitude of sins. Nobody needed to see her body in anything thinner than knitwear right now. She chose not to answer his question, something she regretted when he followed it up with an infinitely more contentious topic.

'Sorry for coming round today, but I just wondered if you'd got my texts.'

'Yeah, I did.' All of them. They'd got progressively closer and closer together, so that she should have been able to predict this visit today. Instead, she'd not let her brain dwell on it for longer than thirty seconds at a time, because what she didn't think about couldn't hurt her. Besides, if she thought about, she might feel guilty for not replying, something which was threatening to drown her now.

'Oh.' Max tried to style his disappointment out. 'Well, I know you've been busy so-'

'I should have text you back,' she interrupted him. 'Sorry.'

'You don't have to apologise.'

'No, I do. I… I'm sorry.' Wrapping her arms around herself despite the heat, she surprised herself by saying, 'My head's been all over the place.'

'I know. Must be nice having your mum around though.'

She nodded because it was, it was lovely to have Claire around. She'd never thought about how nice it would be in all those long lonely months when it had been just her and the stranger living inside her. Having lived away from home for so long, she'd forgotten how Claire always made things better, always knew what to say and do. She didn't know how she'd have got through the past week without her mum there to smile and nod and tell her she was doing things right.

It was the rest of it she was struggling with.

'Have you got a solicitor?'

Max jerked his head round to hers from where he'd been studying Rosie's face. 'Do I need one?'

'Dad thinks,' she began, hating those words and what it made her sound like: the little princess she'd always tried so hard not to be. 'Dad thinks we should get some sort of contract drawn up. Of access arrangements,' she clarified as he continued to stare at her as if he didn't understand a word she was saying. 'Arrangements for when we both have Rosie…'

'I know what access arrangements are. I just didn't know we needed them.' Max looked at her more coldly than he ever had before. 'I said I wanted to be a part of her life.'

'I know.'

'Did you think I'd just change my mind?'

'No! I…' Fran shrugged, shook her head, struggled to put what she was thinking into words. She didn't think she'd been thinking anything much recently, which was probably why these words of her father's had taken root: there was plenty of room in her head for them to do so.

'She's my daughter, Fran. I'm not just going to _walk away_ from her.' He shook his head in near-disgust, looking more disappointed in her than he had since before she'd had Rosie. She didn't know why that bothered her.

'I know. I… I didn't mean you'd choose to.'

'So what did you mean?'

Her father's words came rushing to the surface again, filling the void her own thoughts usually occupied. 'Just… if you had to move away… for… work-'

'Well, that's never going to happen,' he said, with some hint of the good humour she was used to from him.

'Or if you met somebody-'

'Who'd make me leave my daughter?'

'I don't know!' she said finally. 'Just… forget it. Forget I said anything.' It seemed the easiest way out of the situation right now. In her family, that was usually the end of the argument; people would silently simmer and pretend they had forgotten whatever had been said.

It clearly worked differently in the Walker household.

'Even if those things happened, I'd make it work. I'd… drive back every weekend, I'd have her to stay. I'd… I don't know, commute to Manchester every single day. I'd make it work. I'm not walking out on her. Ever.'

Fran looked at him again, recognised those eyes which had always drawn her in, always told her the truth. Throughout everything, he'd been the most honest person she'd ever met. She'd always prized herself on being truthful, never telling lies. But she'd been the worst liar: she'd lied to herself. Max had never done anything but tell the truth, even when it did him no favours. If he said he wouldn't let Rosie down, he wouldn't.

'So… do I need to hire Rumpole of the Bailey or is Scout's honour enough?'

Despite her exhaustion, she felt her mouth twitching into a smile. 'The last time you gave your Scout's honour, Rosie happened,' she reminded him, and was heartened to see him smile in recognition of the reference.

'And you can thank me for that any time you like.'

She did, silently, every minute of the day. It had been the worst year of her life, without a doubt: the loneliest, and the scariest and the saddest. And then, from nowhere, came this rush of love, terrifying and overwhelming and amazing. All for the sleeping bundle in the pushchair. And all because of this man next to her. It had been an awful year with the very best reward at the end of it.

Putting all of that into words was beyond her right now though, so she went for the easier option. 'Coffee?' Gesturing towards the hut in the middle of the park, she added, 'My treat?'

'Love one. Black two sugars.'

'Is that all anybody round here drinks?' she asked. 'First Lofty, now you.'

The smile changed to one of bemusement. 'Lofty? He doesn't drink coffee.'

She frowned. 'Yes, he does. Black. Disgustingly so.'

'I've never seen him touch the stuff. He says it makes him hyper.'

'But…' For a moment, she wondered if it wasn't just current thoughts she was having a problem with, but past memories as well. Why she'd have stored that information away was beyond her; a simple cup of coffee from months ago stood out against a smorgasbord of more important, more earthshattering moments. It didn't make sense, apart from the fact that it had been the one kind thing anybody had done for her on a horrible day.

Then she realised, as she looked into his steady gaze, which showed he was remembering it as well as she did. She didn't know why she'd not realised it before.

'It was you, wasn't it?' she said, knowing she didn't have to say any more than that.

He shrugged. 'I wasn't using it.'

That wasn't the point and he knew it. It seemed he was as hopeless at accepting gratitude as she was at expressing it. She wondered if that was a sign. Her brain was in no fit state to wonder what kind of sign.

'Are you getting coffee or…?' Max tailed off, breaking the silence which had fallen between them.

She shook herself. 'Yeah. I'll just…' Gesturing over her shoulder, she stole one last look at her still-sleeping daughter, wondering if it was too far for her to go away from her.

'We'll wait here for you.' Max gave her a small smile. 'By the time you get back, she might even be awake.'

Fran wondered if he understood what that entailed.

* * *

 ** _Next time: Getting to Know You_**

 _'Cal, mate, can we have a hand?' Ian called as he opened the back door of the ambulance._

 _Cal hesitated. He wasn't proud of it, but he did. His shift was over, and he hadn't had time off in ages, unless you counted when Rosie had been born, which he really didn't because that had been the most unrelaxing few days of his life. There were loads of people inside the hospital, his own brother for one, who were still on the clock and therefore in a far better position for helping whatever unfortunate was inside that vehicle. He didn't have to get involved._

 _'Gunshot wound to the left shoulder?'_

 _How did she do that? With a tip of her head and a tantalising titbit which was just about on the right side of professional, Tiffany Gray had somehow hooked him in. It only took him another second to toss his bag into the ambulance and grab the trolley._

* * *

Chapter/lyrics from 'Picture of You' by Boyzone


	24. Getting to Know You

**Friday afternoon update to celebrate holidays! Hoorah!**

* * *

 _Getting to know you, getting to feel free and easy. When I am with you, getting to know what to say._

It had been a week. Max had been coming round here, sitting on her sofa, drinking from her mugs, using her kettle, for a week. This was unheard of. At no stage in her life had she had the kind of relationship which involved sharing a space like this with anybody who wasn't a relative. Ordinarily, she went out of her way to avoid this. She was supposed to be showing him the door.

The odd thing was that this didn't feel like it always had before. After a day with somebody else, be they vague friend or colleague, she was ready to retreat inside of herself and not see another living soul for several days. This wasn't exactly easy, but very little had been in the last week, thanks to several stitches and a newborn. Having Max around was at least no less awkward than anything else was, and he did have his uses.

'I think I've got it right this time,' he said, handing her a mug of tea. 'Half the milk first, then the tea, then a sugar, then the remaining milk. Anyway, it's certainly an improvement on your attempts.'

Fran had never realised making tea was such an art form, and particularly didn't like his dig at her own efforts. It was a method that had been working fine for her for the past twenty years or more and she disliked being criticised at the best of times; these were quite far from the best of times. Still, it was made for her, one less thing for her to do. And it was a pretty good cup of tea.

'So,' Max said, sitting down beside her, his own mug cradled in his hands. 'How shall we pass the time until Princess Rosie makes her next demand?'

Fran could think of several ways, all involving being unconscious. She wasn't too fussed where or when, but sleep had to be at the top of her agenda right now. According to her mum, Rosie was a good baby, a meaningless phrase if Fran had ever heard one; babies had no concept of good or bad, and being 'good' didn't mean that she wasn't still subject to the standard needs and wants of a newborn. The daytime stuff alone would have wiped out a woman twice as healthy as Fran was right now, and that was before the midnight feeds. Never before had Fran envied those people who fell asleep instantly quite so much.

That was all something Max didn't need to know though.

Sitting up, Fran said, 'I've got some washing that needs doing.'

'If it's for Rosie, you don't need to worry.' Like a magician, Max produced a bag with a flourish. 'Courtesy of Lofty.'

Fran eyed the bag suspiciously, tentatively taking it as if it was going to bite her. This was far from the first parcel Max had produced in the past seven days and none of them had contained an asp, yet she was still wary. Each bag had been a gift from people she didn't really know, hadn't given a thought to in the weeks since she'd been in the ED. And yet they'd been thinking about her, buying things, wrapping things up. It was the sort of gesture she didn't trust.

Unwrapped, she distrusted it even more. The baby-grows were lovely, pretty pink things with daisies and butterflies on them, and precisely what was needed. Fran's washing machine was on a permanent spin cycle as her daughter ploughed her way through clothes at an alarming pace. Toys and books were wonderful, but for sheer basic necessity, Lofty had it spot-on.

'That was nice of him,' she said, hearing how stilted she sounded and not knowing how to fix that. She folded the clothes up again, pristine and perfect. 'Everybody's been very kind.'

'Most people are.'

Fran felt that wasn't completely accurate but didn't challenge him. 'I should write some thank you cards.'

'Nobody expects it.' Then, craftily, almost as if he'd engineered this conversation, he said, 'Anyway. There might be a better way for you to say thank you.'

Instantly on guard, she said, 'How's that then?'

He raised his eyebrows. 'People want to meet her.'

She hesitated before saying, 'And by people you mean…'

'The department?' Her reluctance must have immediately transferred itself to her face. 'Or not. You know. Whatever. Cards are fine.'

It wasn't an attractive reflection of how he saw her. He'd backed off so quickly, as if he was in danger, as if she'd physically or verbally attack him for such a suggestion. It was a minor request; he wanted to share his daughter with the people he cared about, the people who cared about him. Fran had already done that. There was nothing unreasonable about it. She just didn't know how she'd go about doing it. For the first time, her thoughts turned to the department and colleagues she'd left behind.

'Do they all know?' she asked now, unsure how she hadn't asked this before.

'Know what?'

'About Rosie? About her being yours, I mean?'

'I didn't know it was a secret.' The word hung unspoken in the air: _anymore_.

'It's not.' There was no reason for it to be. She'd forgotten why there ever had been before. Faced with the reality of Rosie, all reasons to keep her a secret had faded away. She didn't mind if people knew. It wasn't her choice anyway; that she'd ever thought it had been was something she was ashamed to admit now.

There was the other thing though.

'What about…?' she started.

'What about what?'

'The adoption thing.' She said it quickly, hoping it would be like ripping a plaster off, less painful in the long run. It wasn't. It sounded wrong now. She couldn't believe she'd been using it so casually only weeks ago.

Max left a long pause before saying, 'No. They don't all know.'

'Who does?'

'Lofty and Robyn.'

His flat-mate and his sister. She should have expected it. That was liveable with. 'Thank you,' she said in a small voice.

There was no response for a time, as if he didn't know what to say. A quick glance at his face showed a tension in his jaw, as if he was fighting against saying something he'd regret. She wished he'd say it, get it out into the open.

Instead, he said, 'About Robyn. She'd really like to see Rosie.' When she didn't reply, he added, 'She is her aunt.'

'I know.'

Max gave her a questioning look, as if he couldn't fathom what problem she could have with that.

'She doesn't really like me.'

'Cal doesn't really like me.'

She wished she could defend that, but all she was able to manage was, 'Cal doesn't like a lot of people.' It was partially true, but she'd never really known her brother take such an exception to somebody like this before: nobody except his own father, anyway.

'She doesn't _dislike_ you,' Max said now, apparently choosing his words very carefully. 'She just… well, she doesn't know you and…' He gave a heavy sigh before running his hands over his face. 'And I guess the adoption thing hasn't helped.'

Fran stared at him. 'She hates me because of that?' She was surprised how much it hurt. It never had before, not for many years. It was as though having Rosie had opened her up to all kinds of wounds.

'She doesn't _hate_ you, she…' The word didn't seem to come, or at least, not a word Max was willing to share with her. At length, he said, 'There's things about Robyn you don't know.'

Fran didn't push. She had her own things that people didn't know. There were big things and small things, but they were _her_ things. She didn't know that she'd like just anybody knowing them. She felt she should afford Robyn the same respect.

'It's alright,' she said.

'No, you should hear this.' Max shook his head defiantly. 'You just can't tell her I told you.'

Fran felt that wouldn't be a problem.

'When she was younger, after her mum died, her dad found things a bit tough. Three girls, no mother.' Max shrugged. 'I didn't really know until she was older, but things went wrong for a bit. And social services were involved. Not for any bad reason, but she was the oldest. She… was worried.' Shrugging again, he said, 'So she's just thinking about that.'

It was a glossed over explanation, not revealing what went wrong or how badly things had gone. It said enough, though. It gave Robyn a very real reason to distrust Fran; Fran had black-listed people for less.

'When can she come round?'

'I didn't tell you to force you.'

She knew. Somehow, she didn't think Max would ever force her, to do anything. That was new: a man in her life who didn't think they knew better than her. Unexpectedly, she envied Rosie the chance to grow up with a father like him. She wasn't sure exactly what that meant.

'Is she free today?'

The smile was slow to come but very worth it. She hoped Rosie had his smile. 'I'll give her a call. I think she's on an early shift today. Thank you.'

'It's alright.' Even if it wasn't, she had no choice. Robyn was Rosie's aunt: job done.

'And I,' he said, getting to his feet as Rosie let loose a plaintive yell, 'will deal with Madam.'

* * *

'And that,' Cal said, with a flourish and a thump of notes down on the counter, 'is that.'

Predictably, Louise looked less than impressed with his actions. Raising an eyebrow, she lifted the folder up and, unnecessarily, straightened out the papers within it. 'Somebody's working hard today.'

'As always.' Cal gave her a wink which was, also predictably, poorly received. He shrugged it off. It was the end of his shift and the last thing he wanted to waste time on was a huffy receptionist. There were a hundred ways he could think of to spend his afternoon off, mostly involving the unusually sunny weather, a beer and perhaps some attractive company.

It had been a good day, he mused as he prepared to go home. Obviously, finishing work by two in the afternoon helped, but the day itself had been okay. Patients had come and gone reasonably pleased with their treatment, and he'd even had the Beauchamp seal of approval when she'd given him a brief nod. The small things, he thought to himself, sometimes really did make all the difference.

So now he stepped outside into the summer sunshine, more of a bounce in his step than he'd had for a while, his mind buzzing with the array of things he could do with his time.

Then an ambulance screeched to a stop outside the ED.

'Cal, mate, can we have a hand?' Ian called as he opened the back door of the ambulance.

Cal hesitated. He wasn't proud of it, but he did. His shift was over, and he hadn't had time off in ages, unless you counted when Rosie had been born, which he really didn't because that had been the most unrelaxing few days of his life. There were loads of people inside the hospital, his own brother for one, who were still on the clock and therefore in a far better position for helping whatever unfortunate was inside that vehicle. He didn't have to get involved.

'Gunshot wound to the left shoulder?'

How did she do that? With a tip of her head and a tantalising titbit which was just about on the right side of professional, Tiffany Gray had somehow hooked him in. It only took him another second to toss his bag into the ambulance and grab the trolley.

As it turned out, helping out after his shift had ended stood him good stead. The locum replacement for Fran's maternity leave had been a no-show, and they were operating on a skeleton staff. Ethan almost looked _pleased_ to see him, so that was a bonus, as were the thanks he received from both Charlie and Tess. Connie, naturally, acted as though staying late was merely part of the package deal of being a junior doctor, and she was probably right. Some gratitude wouldn't have gone amiss though.

It was only afterwards, when the man had been transferred to an appropriate ward to recover from the minor surgery needed to remove the bullet, that Cal really thought about what had happened here. One minute he'd been heading into an afternoon off; the next he'd tied himself up in paperwork for two more hours. Afternoon was almost evening. It had been a very abrupt U-turn.

All because of her, he realised now, as he watched Tiffany sashaying across the car park, cigarettes and lighter in hand. One short sentence and she'd convinced him that staying here and helping out was absolutely the right thing, the _best_ thing to be doing. That was some impressive wizardry which he wanted answers to.

But of course, she got her question in first. 'So how's the guy?'

He nodded. 'Fine. We've sent him up to a ward.'

'Go team!' There was some irony in there, but there was something endearing about the way she said that, as if she really believed in what she was saying. Cal thought it was nice: sometimes you needed a cheerleader in the ED.

Now she looked at him in a strange mixture of anticipation and defiance, waiting for him to ask. So he did. 'What was that about?'

'What was what about?' It was an old game but she played it beautifully. Despite himself and the lost afternoon, he found the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.

'The gunshot thing. Why did you think I'd be interested?'

'You mean you weren't?'

'No! I… was, I… am. Just… how did you know?'

She smoked her cigarette and didn't answer for a few seconds. It was that moment, those few seconds of silence, Cal realised: that was what held his little brother so enthralled by her. Oh, he knew Ethan was adamant that it was over, had barely even begun, was a stupid error in judgement. He also knew that his brother was loathe to ever let anybody see he was hurting; it didn't mean it didn't happen. When Tiffany Gray looked at you like this, words dangling eternally on her lips, you waited as long as it took.

'You like excitement, the unexpected,' she said eventually, speaking with authority. 'You like things to be life and death. You like to be the hero.'

True. All so very very true. He'd never thought about it in that much depth, would never have admitted it out loud, but she'd just summed up the things he loved best about emergency medicine. It was why he liked resus and craved more opportunities to be on the first response team. He wanted to be at the forefront of things. She was spot on.

Trying to hide how right she'd got it, he took a few casual drags on his cigarette. 'And you'd know this because… Ethan told you?' It was the sort of clinical analysis his brother might have completed of his personality.

'Ethan doesn't really talk about you.'

Cal was unsure whether to feel pleased or upset by that. It was probably healthy that thirty-one-year-old Ethan had more to talk about than his infuriating older brother, especially with a woman, but Cal couldn't help it: he liked to be the centre of attention. And it still didn't explain Tiffany's amateur psychology.

'How is Ethan?'

Cal blinked. 'He's… good.' Then, more jovially, 'I thought you two were "friends" now.' He didn't know why he put the word in inverted commas. It was something he never usually did, and he knew why: it was bitchy and pathetic, two things he was trying to be less of as he grew older.

She ignored that as well, but couldn't hide the brief shadow which passed over her face. It was on the tip of Cal's tongue to say something; it seemed Tiffany was as sensitive about all of this as Ethan was, something he wouldn't have expected. Feeling bad, he opened his mouth and hoped something kind would come out.

'You're like me.' Tiffany looked at him directly. 'You… do dumb stuff and say dumb things. You like being the centre of attention.' She shrugged casually. 'That's why I knew you'd like the gunshot thing. Here, this is yours.' She handed him his bag and, dropping her cigarette to the ground, she walked away.

Cal finished his cigarette before heaving the bag onto his shoulder. It was well past time to go home.

* * *

'You haven't got your own key yet, then?' Robyn asked as they stood outside Fran's flat.

Max ignored the dig. His step-sister had been excited when he'd called, even if she'd pretended not to be. He recognised the pitch of her voice. Babies were very much Robyn's thing; despite what she said, family was everything, even her annoying sisters and his annoying brother. Rosie was lucky: she had the very best aunt in the world.

Even so, he felt the need to say something on behalf of Rosie's mother as they waited for her to open the door. 'Be nice.'

'When am I not nice?' Robyn demanded.

Before Max could reply, the door opened, and he swallowed down his retort. He could think of several times she hadn't been all that nice about Fran, even before the whole Rosie-thing had happened. Dredging them up now probably wasn't helpful though.

Instead, he did his best to lead by example. Fran looked marginally more pulled-together than she had when he'd left the flat earlier. At least, in comparison with how she'd looked recently. It was only now he considered what a departure she'd taken from her usual work-look. Having seen her comatose and bleeding in a lift, he thought she'd probably never look quite as bad again. In contrast, Robyn had probably never seen her look as rough. As little as he knew about Fran, he knew this was costing her dearly, and he felt guilty.

So he led with, 'Hi. Is now a good time?'

Fran's eyes flickered from him to Robyn and back again, as if he was her salvation. Any port in a storm, he supposed, and if it made this easier on her, he was more than willing to play the role.

'Sure.' She nodded now. 'Hi… Robyn.'

The flat looked tidier than when he'd left too, no preparation too great for their visitor. It was impressive, really, how Fran, still recovering from her ordeal and adjusting to a life lived by the whims of someone whose primary method of communication was screaming, had transformed herself and her surroundings in the short hours he'd been gone. Things were far from perfect, far from the picture she usually presented to the world. But they were improved. That was efficient.

'She's just gone down for a nap,' Fran began, gesturing vaguely towards the Moses basket. 'Sorry, she's not really in a routine yet, she's…'

Max was about to speak, say something to diffuse the tension and put Fran at her ease, when his expectations were entirely exceeded by Robyn.

'It's fine. Babies can be difficult.' Then, even more kindly, she added, 'Shall I make a cup of tea?' Without waiting for a reply, she made her way to the kitchen as if she'd been there thousands of times before.

Max glanced across as Fran, wondering how she'd take this very real invasion of her personal space. It had taken three days for her to let him near the kettle.

'What is it with your family and tea?'

He smiled, and the smile didn't leave his face for the next few hours. This was a million miles from a relaxed family occasion, but it was equally as far from the last time the three of them had encountered each other, the morning after the most pivotal night of his life. It was only as the afternoon unfolded, as Robyn held her niece for the first time, as Fran unbent herself enough to be able to relax for about two minutes at a time, that he realised how anxious he'd been about this. Now two of the most important people in his life had met properly – three, if you included Rosie herself.

And Rosie most definitely did count as far as Max was concerned. True, she was less than fourteen days old. True, she spent at least half her day asleep. Even so, she was one of the most real people he'd ever had the opportunity to come across. He'd given himself a crash course in babies over the past two weeks, taking every opportunity to swot up on what to expect over the next weeks and months. It was the sort of study he'd never undertaken at school or university. He'd learnt when they could expect Rosie to start smiling, laughing, crawling and walking, when they should think about moving her onto solid food, the sort of school they should think about enrolling her in. There were whole websites dedicated to this stuff, as well as advice for how and when parents might go about restarting 'relations'. That had been far too much information. The point was that he'd learnt all of the theory, and it was interesting and useful and terrifying, but it wasn't real. It didn't take into account the tiny person at the centre of all of this, her needs and wants and interests. Max hadn't thought babies had enough autonomy to have needs and wants, but that was before he met Rosie. The more time he spent with her, the more he realised that the websites were just a guideline. Nothing could replace hands-on knowledge of an individual. He felt lucky all over again that Fran was giving him the opportunity to know his daughter.

Being a dad still felt pretty crazy. But he was starting to think he wasn't so bad at it after all.

* * *

Ethan felt guilty. That was a pretty standard feeling for him, and it always came as something as a shock that everybody else didn't live a life filled with toe-curling regrets at things he'd said and done. He had a suspicion that he'd never get over the guilt he felt at everything surrounding his mother's illness and death. It was probably normal to regret not having spent more time with her when she was well, and to feel bad about not ever having got on with Cal in the way she would have liked them to. In a strange way, he'd made peace with that leaden weight in the pit of his stomach.

Today, he felt guilty for whole other reasons. Firstly, he felt guilty for having needed the text prompt from Claire to drop in and visit his little sister. It was something he expected Cal would never need, and truthfully, the thought had crossed Ethan's mind that perhaps Fran might like a visitor. Max had been doing his bit, but there was nothing like having family visit: Ethan knew from his own experience in hospital last year. True, Fran had flaked out on him on that occasion, but she'd had her own problems at the time. The only problem Ethan had as an excuse was feeling tired after a shift spent mostly avoiding Tiffany Gray. That wasn't an excuse at all.

Still, it had taken Claire's polite brief text to prompt him into turning his car away from home: _Could you call into Fran and just check she's okay?_ Given how he'd deceived his step-mother for the past six months, it was the least he could do. Feeling like a little boy, he had done his duty, albeit unwillingly.

Now he felt guilty for being so reluctant to come here. He didn't know why he'd been so loathe to see his sister and niece. It was true that his relationship with Francesca was sometimes strained, and also true that his experience with babies came down to one half-hearted hold of a baby cousin at their christening when he was ten. Even so, it didn't explain the way he'd avoided being left alone with Fran and Rosie since they'd arrived home. Adjusting to his sister's new role in life was tough. _Which is why you should be more supportive_ , he'd berated himself as he stood on the doorstep and waited to be allowed in.

Yet within minutes he realised how wrong he'd been. To say Fran looked pleased to see him would be overstating things a tad, but she didn't look entirely hacked off either. He'd take that.

He'd also take how much more contented she seemed at being Rosie's mum since the last time he'd seen her. A few days had given her more confidence with her daughter, now daring to hold her with one hand at times, passing her off to her uncle with more ease. A few days, or perhaps a few days _with Max_ , a very real presence in the flat. Ethan counted no fewer than two t-shirts belonging to the porter in various stages of clean, as well as a vague scent of smoke in the air.

'Has Max been over?' he asked, quite unnecessarily.

Fran nodded. And then blurted out, 'And Robyn.'

Ethan tried not to react, keeping his eyes focused on Rosie instead. 'Oh. That was… nice.' He hoped it had been. Much as he'd always got along with the nurse, Fran's track-record with people liking her was problematic, and he suspected Robyn of being part of the anti-Fran movement at work. This was always going to be a momentous meeting.

Fran nodded again, somewhat non-committal as she folded up more clothes. Apparently she didn't want to talk about it, which was fine by Ethan. It gave him more of an opportunity to study his niece and see if he could find those things that other people found with ease: the family nose, the ears belonging to Great-Uncle John. Time to see who Rosie took after.

'She's got Max's eyes.' He had no idea how that had happened, how he'd blurted it out so quickly. It had taken him completely by surprise and he felt the need to apologise now for bringing him up again so soon after Fran had put the lid on that conversation.

But she didn't seem mad. If Ethan didn't have the memory of his sister's smiles from when she was little, he might have described her as beaming. 'I know. I wondered if anybody else had noticed.'

'I thought babies had blue eyes.'

She shrugged. 'Some do.' Then, slightly breathlessly, eyes shining, she said, 'She does this thing right before she falls asleep where she scrunches her fingers and toes up and then relaxes them.' It sounded like a happy secret she'd been dying to tell somebody. This was very different from how she usually behaved.

Ethan dragged his eyes away from his niece and looked at his sister instead – really looked, beyond the tired eyes, scruffy hair and shapeless clothes. It was a far cry from the sister he'd known for the past twenty-eight years, all polish and precision. It seemed very much as if she was living each day as it came. Ethan would say it was an improvement.

'What are you smiling at?' she asked suddenly, her tone mildly teasing, sounding younger than she had done for years.

He thought for a second before saying what he really felt. 'Being a mum suits you.'

'You mean the vomit-stained t-shirt and bags under my eyes? Great.' Reclaiming her daughter, the sardonic smile changed, becoming softer as she met Rosie's blurry gaze, murmured something unintelligible but kind sounding, and then turned her attention back to her brother. Quietly, she said, 'I didn't know how much I wanted this until I saw her. She's… she's like a real person, and I don't normally like people. But I like her.'

It sounded strange, a mother describing her feelings for her only child as like rather than love, but Ethan knew what that meant from his sister. She found people difficult and unpredictable and emotional, things which didn't fit within her tight scheme of things. Babies were difficult and unpredictable and emotional by definition. And Fran still liked her.

That was quite a bit of progress.

* * *

 _Next time: Home is Where the Hurt Is_

 _'So, do you want the good news or the bad news?' Max asked._

 _'What?' Fran blinked._

 _'That's not an option. Good news or bad news?'_

 _Bemused, Fran went with it anyway; she was learning to do that where Max was concerned. 'Bad news.'_

 _'What? Really? Bit pessimistic.'_

 _'It's realistic. I like to know the worst first.' So she could worry and plan and worry some more. She supposed that was a bit pessimistic._

 _'That's depressing. I'm telling you the good news first. Which is,' he said with a dramatic pause, 'I've found a babysitter.'_

 _Fran wondered if she should rescue Rosie from his arms as he seemed to have gone insane. 'Okay. Do we need a babysitter?'_

 _'No. I was just hoping to soften the blow and parents always seem to like the idea of a new babysitter.'_

 _'So what's the bad news?'_

 _Max hesitated before saying, 'My mother's coming to visit.'_

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'Getting to Know You' from 'The King and I'


	25. Home is Where the Hurt Is

**Bit of a longer chapter than lately. I wanted to get this chapter in before Saturday night so my vision of Max's mother didn't get confused with her in the show. This is my Annabel Miller :)**

* * *

 _Spread your wings before they fall apart. Home is where the hurt is, darling. Follow your heart._

It was pure survival instinct which dragged Fran from oblivion into reality as whoever was knocking on the door gave what seemed like a final rap before they moved onto the doorbell. Self-preservation forced her from bed and to the front door before the intruder could wake Rosie up.

'I'm here, I'm here!' she said blearily, taking the safety chain off of the door and turning the lock. 'Don't ring the-'

She broke off as Max pressed the bell and then winced.

'Sorry,' he said in a half-whisper as the buzzer echoed around the flat and they both tensed in anticipation of their daughter's cries. 'I'll…' He gestured over her shoulder and pushed past her as Fran nodded and closed the door behind him. Rosie was already in full-scream mode by the time Max got to her.

'I forgot how loud your bell was,' he admitted, coming back into the living area. 'Is there a bottle ready?'

'I was asleep.'

'So… no?' Max raised his eyebrows. Then, seeing her face, he added, 'Coffee?'

'Please.' Fran held her arms out. 'Give her here.' Even having been woken up so abruptly, and with Rosie screaming in her ear, she wasn't about to pass up the opportunity for a morning cuddle.

Following Max into the kitchen, she watched as he flicked the kettle on, reaching for the formula with one hand and the coffee pot with another. It was effortless, almost balletic. Max inhabited her kitchen in a way she never had, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. Mostly good, she thought, but there were brief moments when she wondered if there was any inch of her flat he didn't know better than she did, and that was unsettling.

Still, if the trade-off was somebody making a cup of coffee in the morning, she supposed she could almost forgive his intrusion at this early hour. Very early hour, she mused now, glancing at the clock on the microwave. This was not typical Max behaviour.

She let him get on with what he was doing though, giving Rosie her first bottle of the day, a sight she enjoyed rather too much. Only when his daughter was content and fully-fed did he turn his attention to her mother.

'So, do you want the good news or the bad news?'

'What?'

'That's not an option. Good news or bad news?'

Bemused, Fran went with it anyway; she was learning to do that where Max was concerned. 'Bad news.'

'What? Really? Bit pessimistic.'

'It's realistic. I like to know the worst first.' So she could worry and plan and worry some more. She supposed that was a bit pessimistic.

'That's depressing. I'm telling you the good news first. Which is,' he said with a dramatic pause, 'I've found a babysitter.'

Fran wondered if she should rescue Rosie from his arms as he seemed to have gone insane. 'Okay. Do we need a babysitter?'

'No. I was just hoping to soften the blow and parents always seem to like the idea of a new babysitter.'

'So what's the bad news?'

Max hesitated before saying, 'My mother's coming to visit.'

It took a moment for Fran to understand how this had any bearing upon her life. Max's mother was a pretty abstract concept to her; it seemed Max saw his family even less than she saw hers. Then, with a sudden jolt, she realised that even if she wasn't quite related to this woman, she was very definitely connected to her.

'She's coming here?'

'She wants to see her only grandchild.' Max nodded. 'I mean, the only one she's related to via blood. And I'm pretty sure I'm not meant to quote her to Charlotte, because she'd definitely be annoyed by that, and they already have a dodgy enough relationship.'

'But she's coming _here_?' Fran gestured around them. 'I… I haven't tidied, I…' Panic set in instantly. The flat hadn't been vacuumed in days, yesterday's dishes were still in the sink. Fran, who had always prided herself on her cleanliness and organisation, had even got a pile of washing sitting on the arm of the sofa. It was a disaster area. And now Max's mother was coming to visit.

'Hey.' Max broke into her thoughts. 'Calm down. She's staying with me and Robyn, she doesn't need to come _here_.'

'But… your place isn't any better.' It had been over nine months since she'd set foot in his house, but Fran didn't believe in miracles.

'No. But she knows what I'm like.' He shrugged nonchalantly. 'She can think I'm a slob if she likes.'

Fran didn't know how people could be so laid back when it came to their parents.

'But she does want to meet you. I mean, Rosie really. But you too. If you want.' Then, hastily, he added, 'I mean, you don't get a choice, she _will_ meet you. She doesn't take no for an answer.'

Whereas Fran was the queen at saying no. It was on the tip of her tongue to say it now. She didn't need this; Rosie had been particularly unsettled last night and Fran was beginning to forget what not feeling tired felt like. Meeting Max's nightmare mother was something she just wasn't prepared for at the moment. Besides which, she didn't see why she had to meet the woman at all. True, most people were on at least nodding terms with their child's grandparents, but this wasn't a conventional set-up and Fran saw no reason to begin being conventional by having to be polite to what amounted to an in-law. This had nothing to do with her.

And if Max had taken that attitude, she really had no idea how they'd be sitting here right now, something she tried not to think about too often. Whenever her mind turned to how narrowly she'd avoided missing out on this strangely contented life, there was only one person she wanted to thank, even as she had no idea how she ever would. Meeting his mother was a small token gesture to repay the many favours he'd extended towards her. It was the very very least she could do.

Reluctantly, she said, 'When is she coming?'

'Today.'

Her dropped jaw must have looked particularly spectacular as Max immediately stood up.

'I'll get Rosie ready, yeah?'

She nodded slowly, already wondering how on earth she'd look mother-meeting-ready in such a short space of time. Her hair hadn't been dyed properly in months and she doubted even a thorough wash would disguise that. She hadn't even made a start on losing her pregnancy weight meaning that her best outfit was basically a glorified sack over a pair of leggings. As for her skin, she didn't think there was enough make-up in production to make her pasty spot-ridden face look anything but hideous. This was a terrible idea.

'Fran?' She looked up to find Max looking down at her, Rosie nestled contentedly into his shoulder. He held her so casually, confidently, as if she'd always been a part of him. 'It's going to be okay, you know? She's really not that bad.'

Of course she wasn't. How could she be? No matter how poor an impression Fran might make upon her, she had a sudden urge to meet Max's mother, because she wanted to know how this man had come about. How was one person so patiently kind, funny, confident and comfortable with himself? And how did Fran go about making sure Rosie was the same?

* * *

'Are we keeping you up?' Tess remarked drily as Cal gave an enormous yawn. 'Late night?'

Cal chose not to answer because he expected Tess wouldn't want to hear it. It had been a late night, a _very_ late night, and he expected it would be frowned upon by the ultra-professional nurse. Working on less than three hours sleep was painful enough without needing a telling off as well. He was best off just getting on with it.

'What have we got?' he asked, picking up the notes Tess had dropped in front of him. 'Anything interesting?'

'Terence Edwards, eighty-two, uncontrollable nosebleed.' She gave him a wry smile. 'Control your excitement.'

Cal tried not to sigh too hard. It was an easy case, involving cauterising the wound, something he didn't feel his expertise were really needed for. Simple and straightforward as it was (and really, simple and straightforward was all he was good for today), he couldn't get enthused about it, nor about the five other mundane, routine patients he saw over the next couple of hours. Even for cubicles, this was a dull day.

Needing some excitement to raise his pulse above clinically dead, he risked a glance at his phone when he was sure nobody else was looking. So far, no message. He supposed it was early, he'd only left her a few hours earlier: she might not have started to miss him just yet. He toyed with the idea of sending her a brief message, tapped out a few drafts, held his finger over 'send'.

'Are we keeping you from something, Doctor Knight?' The acerbic wit of Mrs Beauchamp forced his phone back into his pocket. 'If you're not too busy, could you actually do your job and see some patients?' She was gone before he could protest that he _had_ been doing his job all morning. He supposed she wouldn't believe him anyway.

'Damien Herzog, forty-two, injury to the left eye. Walked into a door.' Lofty relayed the information as they walked to cubicle eight. 'I've flushed it with water. He's complaining of pain so perhaps some ibuprofen for the swelling?'

Cal nodded his assent to the drugs as he surveyed his patient. It was some shiner; Cal had sported one similar himself at university, the result of too much alcohol on the rugby club social. He wondered just how hard Mr Herzog had walked into a door, and what the door looked like; Mr Herzog was at least six foot two and had the sort of shoulders that Cal's rugby team could have done with.

'Hi, I'm Doctor Knight. Is it alright if I take a look at this eye?'

Damien nodded. 'I'm sure it's nothing, I just wanted to be sure.'

'He's a worrier.' The woman holding his hand put in now. 'We both are.'

'Always better to be safe than sorry,' Lofty said with a smile as he handed over the ibuprofen. 'That was some collision with a door.'

The patient gave a small laugh. 'Born unlucky, that's me.'

'Any loss of consciousness?' Cal asked, as he shone a light into the eye. The eye itself was red and the swelling made it difficult to see, but he couldn't see any real lacerations at the moment.

'No.' Damien's wife shook her head.

Pocketing the opthalmoscope, Cal said, 'I'd say you're quite lucky. I can't see any immediate damage to the cornea, but I'd like to have a closer look shortly. I'd also like to run a quick CT scan to make sure there's no internal damage that we're missing.'

'I really feel fine,' Damien insisted. 'If you can't see anything, I'll be on my way.'

'Let the doctor take a look, Damien,' his wife said. 'Just to check.' She gave him a smile and squeezed his hand. 'He doesn't like hospitals.'

'We get a lot of people like that,' Lofty reassured her. 'I'll get onto the CT.'

'I'll be back in a bit,' Cal promised as he slipped out of the cubicle and wondered when the day was going to get interesting.

* * *

The weather still hadn't broken. It had been blazing sunshine ever since Rosie had been born. Ethan knew there was no connection between the two events, but the birth served as a handy marker. Until recently, he'd never paid the weather much attention. Unlike Fran, he'd never been interested in running or pursuing any sort of outside activity. He exercised because he knew he should, and the weather made no difference to the air-conditioned gym he was a reluctant member of. It was only in the past few months that he'd noted what the weather was doing, whether it was hot or cold, and if it was raining. And that was only because of the woman sitting on the bench outside the hospital.

'Nice day.' He didn't know why he hadn't paid more attention to the weather before; it made for fantastic conversational openers when you didn't know what else to say. He and Tiffany had been on nodding terms for the past week. Exchanging actual words had been a bit beyond them, but there wasn't much he could do to avoid it now.

'It's not rained for sixteen days.' She propped her sunglasses up on top of her head. 'Sixteen days! Is that like a British record?'

He smiled. He couldn't help it, it was such a Tiffany thing to say. 'Maybe.' Then, more awkwardly, 'Do you mind if I…?'

'Oh. God, no, knock yourself out.' She moved over marginally, allowing him space next to her on the bench. Then she resumed gazing up at the sky.

'Hope you've got your sunscreen on,' Ethan joked.

'Are you kidding? This might be the last time I see the sun, I'm gonna soak it all up. Anyway, _this_ is hardly gonna get me much of a tan, is it?' She pulled discontentedly at her paramedic's uniform, and Ethan had to admit she had a point. 'You on a lunch break?'

He nodded. 'You?'

'Avoiding Dixie.'

There was a working relationship which had never picked up. If possible, Ethan thought it might be even more strained than it had been when Tiffany had arrived in Holby six months ago. He, of all people, could appreciate how frustrating the Californian was. It was with some trepidation that he now asked, 'What's happened?'

Tiffany rolled her eyes. 'I don't know. I'm on some verbal warning or something.'

'What?' Ethan tried to control his voice, but couldn't help reacting to that. 'What did you do?'

'I forgot to restock the bandages in one of the ambulances.' Tiffany shrugged. 'It's no big deal, we didn't even need them, she's completely overreacting.'

It was true that Dixie didn't cut Tiffany the same amount of slack she cut Iain or Adam. The two women wound each other up without trying. Even so, forgetting to restock some pretty basic medical equipment, whether required or not, was worthy of at least a verbal warning, if not more. He doubted he'd convince Tiffany of that though.

Instead, he broached the topic of the warning itself. 'You know that's quite a big deal, right? A verbal warning is quite serious.' He didn't know; maybe they did things differently in the US.

She shrugged again, Tiffany-speak for this bothering her way more than she'd ever let on. 'What's the worst that can happen?'

'You could get fired?' Maybe it was only him who worried about these things. Him and Fran. Maybe this was why everybody else was able to enjoy life so wholly.

'Yeah, cause she's really gonna fire me!' Tiffany snorted. 'Cause there's loads of people just lining up to take my job.'

Ethan smiled again. She made a good point; being a paramedic wasn't up there with footballer and popstar on most kids' lists.

'Anyway, if I got fired, I'd go somewhere else.'

That idea again, that this was just a phase, a passing fad, a brief halt on a bigger journey. 'Where would you go?'

'Australia.' No hesitation.

'Really?'

'Yeah. Why not? I've always wanted to see kangaroos.'

He couldn't help it. He laughed.

'What's so funny?'

'You'd go all the way to Australia for kangaroos?'

'I think they're cool. Like rabbits with bigger feet.' When he laughed again, her face split into a grin. 'What? You've got a better reason to go somewhere? Where would you go?'

'Me?'

'Yeah, you. Where would you go if you could go anywhere?'

The question startled him, because nobody had ever asked before. Literally, nobody. He wondered if that was odd, to have never had a conversation about his dreams and aspirations and whims. It wasn't something he'd ever considered before. Now he found himself desperate to provide an answer that would measure up to her standards.

But in the end he said the first thing which came into his head. 'California.' He hadn't even known he was going to say it.

Her eyebrows rose. 'Why?'

'To see if the weather's really as good as you say it is.'

She giggled, a real genuinely amused giggle. He'd never heard that before. So much of their time together had been spent with him wondering at everything she said and did. He'd never had much chance to make her laugh before. Maybe this being friends thing would work out better; it seemed to be working for Fran and Max, after all, and they'd shared a whole lot more than a few dates and bottles of wine.

She stood up. 'I should be getting back to Dixie the Dragon. But, you know, when you want to go visit California, give me a call. It'll blow your mind.'

He had absolutely no doubt about that.

* * *

'Where is she, where's my grand-daughter?' Like a force of nature, Annabel Miller swept into the house, pushing past Max in her haste to clap eyes on the fabled grandchild.

'Hi to you too, Mum,' he remarked, his face creasing into a smile. He was actually pleased to see that his mother was excited about the edition to the family; she hadn't sounded quite so elated when he'd broken the news of his fatherhood over the phone. Indeed she'd sounded only slightly less disappointed than she had been when she'd heard his degree results. This greeting was more than he could have expected.

Her cry of triumph on spying Rosie, fast asleep in her car seat until that moment, was akin to a tribal whoop.

'There you are!'

'Mum, don't wake her-' he said, too late, as Rosie opened her eyes, took one look at her grandmother and let out a long wail. Sighing, he pushed past his mum and lifted her out. 'I'd only just got her off to sleep.' Of all the days for Rosie to choose to be difficult, it had to be today. It didn't bode well for his return to work after the weekend. Perhaps this was why Fran hadn't battled quite as hard as he might have expected her to when he'd suggested he take Rosie over to his house early to let her finish getting ready.

'Give her here,' Annabel said, forcibly taking Rosie from his arms. 'It's nothing I can't fix. You were awful when you were her age.'

He was about to protest when, to his astonishment, Rosie's wails came to an abrupt end. Gazing up at Annabel, she looked both shocked and awed by this woman who had swept into her life. He wondered whether his daughter didn't quite respect him and Fran enough, perhaps recognising them for the amateurs they were. In contrast, Annabel Miller was not to be messed with. Max supposed learning that lesson early in life was pretty important.

'There now,' Annabel said, no nonsense and practical. 'Let's have a look at you properly. Well, you haven't inherited the Walker nose, thank goodness.' Max wasn't sure if that was a criticism of him, his father or both of them; Annabel was as efficient with put-downs as she was with babies. 'Good strong grip. And those eyes. She'll do.'

Max gave her a look.

'Definitely an improvement upon Mia.'

'Mum!' He rolled his eyes as she referenced his latest niece in a typically casual criticism.

'You know she wasn't attractive as a baby, Max, I'm only telling the truth!' Annabel said briskly.

'I hope you haven't told Charlotte that!' Or Robyn. Despite the way the two of them moaned and bitched about each other, they were alarmingly united when it came to dealing with Annabel's critiques.

'Looks aren't everything.' One of the few ways Annabel was right. 'And I suppose a consultant must have some brains, even if she gets pregnant after a one-night stand.'

Trying not to wince, because showing weakness to Annabel was like a zebra rolling over and showing its belly to a lion, Max said patiently, 'Fran's not a consultant. But she is clever.'

'Let's hope she takes after her mother then.'

Max let the blow glance off of him; in the twenty-nine years he'd been on this earth, he'd learnt that much of what his mother said was bravado. Insults had been punctuated by intense hugs and startling outpourings of praise in their house, even before their family had grown much larger when his parents had split up. His father lived in France with his new wife and their pack of Irish wolfhounds, dog-breeding apparently having appealed much more than any more child-breeding. Ten-year-old Max and his brother Simon had momentarily been left largely to their own devices before their family had collided spectacularly with Jim Miller and his three lip-glossed and sparkly-taloned daughters. Within a year it had been a permanent move and Max had never really had time to catch his breath. It was then he'd learnt the art of going with the flow, because he'd had no other choice.

Now, his mother was looking down at her sleeping grand-daughter with more tenderness than an outsider might have imagined possible. It was these moments of stillness, as well as the fact she'd made this journey at all, which reminded Max that whatever she said or did, her love for him and Simon was infinite. By extension, he assumed that meant that Rosie was accepted into the fold as well.

Then, abruptly the peaceful moment was over, as Annabel turned her attentions onto him. 'Now. What on earth were you thinking?' It had taken slightly longer than he'd expected, but here it came. 'I mean, honestly Max! I really thought you were beyond this now!'

'I know.'

'If you'd told me this when you were twenty, I might have been a bit more prepared, but I thought even you might have relocated your brain from your pants to your head by now.' Brutal as ever. 'Who even is this woman?'

'Her name's Fran. She's a doctor at work. She's…' He didn't quite know to describe her. 'Nice' would have been like describing his mother as 'maternal', whilst any attempt at being completely honest wouldn't have been entirely flattering. So he kept his mouth closed.

It didn't seem to bother Annabel much. 'And you're what now?'

'We're…' He shrugged. Four weeks in and he still didn't know the answer to that. 'We're going to bring her up together.'

'I hope she has more of a clue than you then.'

'She's a very good mum, actually.' In all the ways that counted, which Max believed were that she loved Rosie desperately and would go to the ends of the earth for her. The rest of it was just trimmings. After all, he considered Annabel to be a good mum and she spent more time finding fault with him than doing anything else.

Annabel regarded him long and hard, a face he very much recognised from days at school when she'd been assessing whether his story matched up with the one she'd already convinced herself of. Then, her mind apparently made up, she said, 'So when do I meet her then?'

No request, he noted, just as he'd expected, and he managed to suppress a smile. 'She's coming over soon.'

Annabel nodded once, smartly. 'You better get the kettle on then. Tea and coffee was all that kept me going when I'd had you.'

Resisting the urge to salute, he got up and went to the kitchen. It was in a particularly disgusting state, all three of them having been pulling extra shifts in the holiday season as people had taken annual leave. He knew it would be worth it come pay-day, especially given how expensive Rosie was turning out to be, but it did nothing for the state of the house. For the first time, he really looked at the room around him as he waited for the water to boil. Fran had been less than accurate earlier; this place was easily worse than her flat, and he felt the first pricklings of shame. This was absolutely not the kind of place he'd imagined he'd be living in when he became a father. Those kinds of thoughts hadn't been common place, but he'd vaguely had an idea of a house with a garden and swings and a shed, and a sensible car on the drive, and a Golden Retriever. Instead, he was still living a glorified student-existence. He wondered what Fran would think about the place, and then realised he already knew: she'd loathe it.

The doorbell rang just as he was wondering if it was too late to squirt some disinfectant around the place.

Fran's appearance on the doorstep wiped all thoughts of his hovel out of his mind. Somehow, in the past few hours, she'd transformed herself. The ever-present leggings were still there, but topped with a flowing turquoise dress which Max wasn't sure he'd ever seen before. Her hair was swept back off of her face and she'd put on make-up, something he'd hadn't seen in much evidence since Rosie had been born. If he needed more proof of miracles after everything that had taken place in the past few weeks and months, this could possibly be it.

It was unfortunate that what was most striking was the mournful expression on her face; she looked as though she was here under the greatest of duress and might run away at any given time. He suspected that if he wasn't essentially holding Rosie hostage, she might never have made it here at all.

'Am I late?' she asked as soon as he opened the door.

'No, you're fine.'

'I'm late.' She ignored his reassurances. 'Sorry. I fell asleep after you'd gone.'

'It's okay.' It was more than okay; sleep was exactly what she needed. 'Mum's not been here long.'

Fran nodded slowly, her eyes looking more haunted by the second. Max didn't think she could look much further from the sophisticated woman who had swept into the ED almost a year ago. Even in the lift, even lying in a hospital bed, she'd retained some of the mystery and glamour which had made the department grind to a halt on that first day. Now, she looked more than a little pathetic, and all in the face of Annabel Miller.

Slipping effortlessly into the role he'd played for years, peacemaker between his mother and the many people she intimidated on a daily basis, he held the door more widely open. 'Are you coming in?'

'Yeah.' Fran nodded but made no more effort to come inside.

Smiling, he said, 'She doesn't bite. Come on. It'll be fine. She's looking forward to meeting you.' She'd asked after Fran. That was basically anticipation.

Fran gave him a doubtful look, but took a step inside. 'That'll be because she hasn't met me yet.'

He chose not to comment, even as he wondered at the depth of feeling behind her comment. Delivering one final piece of advice, he said, 'Just don't take anything she says seriously.'

'Are her jokes worse than yours?'

'You might say that…'

* * *

It might be sunny outside and the day might be going better than usual, but Cal was tired, mildly hungover and hadn't had a proper break all day. Therefore, he felt he was almost justified in grumpily remarking, 'What are you all smiley about?' when he saw his brother looking less than thoroughly miserable.

Ethan gave him a look. 'Because it's better for staff morale than looking like you do right now?'

Touche. Ethan wasn't usually so quick-witted. Something was definitely amiss here, and given that this was the most interesting exchange he'd had all day, Cal grabbed onto it.

'Where've you been all day?' A question partially fuelled by envy and a concern that he might have missed something exciting. Between men walking into doors and women falling over in ridiculous heels, Cal's day was plummeting ever further down. He was now awaiting the results of Damien Herzog's CT scan before he made him an out-patient's appointment and discharged him, putting an end to another very tedious case.

'Mrs Beauchamp asked me to complete a review of our resus procedures,' Ethan replied. Truthfully, that sounded pretty deathly dull too, even if it did suggest that the clinical lead trusted Ethan with more than she'd trust Cal. That surely wasn't what had got Ethan looking more chipper than he had done in a while.

'Have you heard from Fran today?' A change of subject suggesting that there was more to dig for here if Cal had the energy to do so. The mention of their sister was a successful momentary distraction though.

'Should I have?' It had been a couple of days since Cal had heard from Fran, even longer since he'd actually seen her. He supposed that was wrong, given the whole family vibe which was flowing in her direction at the moment. It was the way they'd always operated though, not living in each other's pockets. Until two weeks ago, he hadn't even known where she was living, so he refused to feel guilty now about not having glimpsed her in a few days. Even so, he wondered why Ethan was asking; it suggested there was a reason she might have been in contact.

But Ethan shook his head. 'Should I call her?' Concern filtered across his features. 'You know, just to check on her.'

'Because she'd love that. Just… chill, she's fine.' Strangely, Cal found he believed himself. 'Fine' was never a word he thought he could have applied to this whole situation. Fran had been so adamant that she was having the baby adopted that she'd had no time to prepare for any other eventuality, and Fran liked to prepare. Yet somehow, this seemed to suit her. If Cal was feeling especially sentimental, he might say that motherhood became her in a way nothing else ever had. He expected he'd get a look of disgust from Ethan if he tried that one out though, so instead he said nothing about their sister at all, and plumped for, 'Have you had lunch yet?' Perhaps sharing a sandwich with his brother would unlock whatever was making Ethan so cheerful today.

'Already had it.'

Whilst Cal hadn't even yet had a coffee break. He tried not to sulk, but couldn't resist a teasing, 'And ate it by yourself?', as if they had lunch together every day, which was patently untrue.

'No, Tiffany was with me.' Ethan turned his attention back to the notes in front of him and Cal could practically feel the cool waves coming off of him as he willed his older brother not to say a word…

'Tiffany? You had lunch with _Tiffany_?'

'Not lunch with her. She was… there.' Ethan shrugged and looked at Cal. 'It's nothing to get wound up about.'

Cal wasn't so sure about that, but didn't have a chance to pursue it further as Lofty interrupted.

'Mr Herzog's scan results are back.'

Cal prepared himself for more boredom as he gave them a cursory once over. As he'd expected, no real damage beyond the bruising. His more thorough examination of the injury suggested that Damien might have some war wounds for a fair while yet, and he might be in pain, but there was no real lasting damage to his vision. Another routine mundane case.

'He can go home as soon as we've got him an outpatients' appointment.' Cal turned to go.

'Actually, Cal.' Lofty stopped him in his tracks. 'I couldn't help noticing when I took him upstairs…'

Cal waited approximately half a second before demanding, 'What?' Hunger made him grumpy and impatient, and he didn't have time for the nurse's dithering.

'There are a lot of bruises.' Before Cal could beg for clarification, Lofty added, 'Like, all over him.'

Cal blinked. 'From walking into a door?'

Lofty shrugged. 'How many people walk into a door?' he pointed out, before self-deprecatingly adding, 'I mean, apart from me.'

Cogs moved begrudgingly in Cal's mind, sluggish and still potentially intoxicated from the night before. It was the first time he'd really had to think all day and it took a few seconds. Even when he got there, he didn't really trust the conclusion. Mr Herzog was about twice the size of his wife. It didn't make sense.

But the walking into a door excuse was a classic. Cal had lost count of how often he'd heard it, acted upon it, dismissed it when requested to. If Damien had been a woman, he'd have questioned it. As it was, he'd accepted it as one of those stupid things men did. Now he wasn't so sure.

'But,' he said as Lofty continued to stand there. 'He's _massive_. And she's…'

Lofty shrugged again. 'Should we say something?'

Cal weighed it up even though he knew the answer already. Technically, they'd fulfilled their duty of care here, treating his injury and providing treatment going forwards. They'd done their jobs. He could rest easy.

Sighing, he said, 'Get Robyn to show Mrs Herzog where the coffee is.' Lunch would have to wait a little longer.

* * *

Max's warning was all well and good, but Fran did think he might have laid it on a bit heavier. The next twenty minutes were some of the most painful of her life, and she'd given birth in a lift with no analgesia.

Her opening words set the tone for a terrible afternoon. She'd agonised over the words all the way here in the car, the combined efforts of DJ Luck and MC Neat not even enough to stop her anxiety on this occasion. A simple 'hello Mrs Walker, I'm pleased to meet you,' had seemed straightforward and inoffensive when spoken to her rear-view mirror. She knew the offered handshake was a little over-formal, but her dad had seemed to like it when Max had done the same, so she didn't think it was too bad.

As ever, it was the words which let her down. She felt rather than saw Max's wince as they escaped and it was patently obvious that she'd said something wrong. Unfortunately, she only realised what it was one split second before she was put straight.

'It's Mrs Miller.' Max's mother raised her eyebrows as if Fran had said something heinously offensive, and perhaps she had: Max didn't talk much about his dad and Fran knew all about useless fathers from Cal's experiences. Maybe Mrs _Miller_ didn't want to be connected with Mr Walker in any way, shape or form.

'Sorry,' Fran mumbled.

'And she'd prefer it if you called her Annabel anyway, wouldn't you, Mum?' Max gave his mother a very pointed glare which Fran wished she hadn't seen. Truthfully, she wished he hadn't spoken. Calling this woman Mrs Miller would have suited her perfectly, because Annabel was such an unlikely name for somebody who radiated authority and no-nonsense. Mrs Miller would do just fine.

To make matters worse, Mrs Miller didn't confirm her son's assertions. Instead, she moved briskly on with, 'Max tells me you're a doctor.'

Fran wasn't sure if she was supposed to have brought ID with her, because Mrs Miller sounded so very suspicious, as if she was falsely claiming membership of an exclusive club. 'I… am.' Unconsciously, her eyes flew to Max's, seeking some form of assurance that she was saying the right thing. When he didn't appear to be pulling one of the faces he was so adept at, she added, 'We work together.'

The room fell silent, which Fran found surprisingly okay. If she wasn't being asked any questions, she couldn't say the wrong thing. Besides which, she was in a room with Rosie and her ears weren't bleeding from the screams. This was progress. Regardless of how daunting Mrs Miller was, Fran wasn't sure she couldn't learn to deal with it: she seemed to be some kind of wizardess when it came to babies. Perhaps Rosie was merely as daunted by her grandmother as Fran herself was.

'And what do your parents do?'

'Mum!' Max broke in. 'It's not a job interview!'

Fran sort of wished it was; she was good at those.

'How often have you been asked about your parents in a job interview?' Mrs Miller demanded, barely waiting for an answer before saying, 'Exactly. So?' Turning back to Fran, she intimated she wouldn't give her much longer to answer either.

'My dad's a surgeon and my mum's a nurse.' It was a simple answer anyway, and she felt emboldened to add, 'My brothers are doctors too.'

'Quite a family business,' Mrs Miller surmised. 'Well, at least this little one will have some brains headed her way. That's a positive.'

Fran wasn't sure whether to feel offended on behalf of Rosie or on behalf of Max, so she settled for feeling mildly disgruntled for both. For all of her father's faults, his criticisms tended to be levelled at decisions one of his unusual brood made rather than their very being. As for Rosie, Fran knew she was biased but she privately thought that being less than a genius would probably work out better for her daughter: nobody liked people with brains and beauty.

'Max said you had a traumatic birth.'

As ever, Fran felt her face burn slightly underneath the layers of carefully applied foundation. 'It was… quite difficult.' She wondered quite how much Max had shared with his mother and hoped it wasn't too much. So far, they'd managed to keep the majority of what had happened in the lift safely tucked away in the past; it really didn't need trotting out now over tea and biscuits.

'And you're fully recovered now?'

'Yes.' Fran nodded and prayed it was over. This couldn't be for real, surely? When Max had said on the drive home from the hospital that meeting his mother would make her want to drive and keep on driving, she'd assumed he was at least partly joking. Right now, she was half-planning how she'd be able to sweep her daughter away from Mrs Miller's grasp, grab her handbag and keys and get into the car before anybody tried to stop her. It would be the most exercise she'd done in months, but she was pretty certain she could manage it.

'Good.'

Fran blinked. Miraculously, her prayers seemed to have been answered. That was new.

'Max nearly killed me when he was born. Enormous head.'

'Mum!' Whether he was protesting on his own behalf or had noticed Fran's discomfort, she wasn't sure.

'Well you did have. It's a shame you haven't put it to better use than trying to murder your mother in child-birth. I could barely walk for weeks.'

'Mum!' Max tried again, his voice even more high-pitched than before. 'Fran really doesn't need to hear about this.'

'Don't be squeamish.' Mrs Miller turned to Fran again. 'How heavy was she?'

Here was a question she could answer, even as her brain whirred into overdrive and tried to pre-empt what was coming next. 'Seven pounds three ounces.'

'Really? Has she lost some weight since?'

'No!' Fran surveyed her daughter as well as she could without getting any nearer to Mrs Miller. 'She's putting on weight at the perfect rate according to the health visitor and the midwife.' And Google and the horrendously toxic forums she'd taken to browsing in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep.

'She seems lighter.'

'Who'd like tea?' Max clapped his hands together, a slightly maniacal grin on his face. 'Coffee?'

Fran would have said no, even though her caffeine levels were running low; from going cold turkey for the best part of nine months, her addiction had resurfaced seemingly undiminished since she'd had Rosie. However, if the choice was going coffeeless or being left on her own with Mrs Miller, there was only one answer she could give.

'Don't make a drama out of it.' Mrs Miller rolled her eyes. 'I'll have tea. Don't put too much milk in it.'

All Fran could do was throw a desperate glance at him as he headed to the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

Awkward silence descended upon them. Not for the first time in her life, Fran half-wished she was one of those people who could talk to anybody about anything. Mind you, she wasn't convinced even one of those people would have much to say to Mrs Miller.

'I'm only going to say this once,' Mrs Miller said suddenly, her gaze back on Rosie. 'My son can be an idiot at times. He does stupid things and he makes utterly ludicrous decisions.'

Fran wasn't sure if she was supposed to agree with that or not. She could see where Mrs Miller was coming from, but she was his mother; she was certain Claire would never say anything similar about any of them, even Cal, and Fran wasn't sure you could get much more distantly related than that.

'He takes after his father like that.' Definitely some bad blood there. 'But he's also kind. One of the kindest people, I know, in fact, though I can't say I know where he gets it from because it's not me and it's certainly not his father.' At least she was aware of her own shortcomings. 'He's intensely loyal too. Once he loves somebody, there's no going back for Max, whatever happens.'

These were all things Fran had suspected about him. It was nice to have them confirmed by somebody who, bizarrely, seemed more impartial than anybody else she'd met so far in Max's world. But apart from that, she wasn't sure why Mrs Miller was bringing any of this up.

'So I just want to let you know. You've got the best father in the world for this little girl. Make sure you remember that.'

After all of the casually cruel comments she'd directed at her son in the previous half hour, this avalanche of admiration was strange and unexpected. Yet Fran found she entirely believed Mrs Miller's words now, because she knew they were true.

The added, 'Of course, his head is already more than big enough so we'll keep this between ourselves,' only confirmed it.

Stifling a smile, Fran stood up. 'I… I better get a bottle ready for Rosie. She's due a feed.'

Mrs Miller neither nodded nor acknowledged she'd even spoken. She went back to staring at Rosie instead, something Fran could fully get on board with.

In the kitchen, Max looked up from where he was pushing coffee around as he waited for the kettle to boil. Fran had a suspicion it had already boiled several times and he'd been avoiding the inevitable. She couldn't blame him entirely; if anybody knew about avoidance tactics, it was her.

'You're still alive!' he remarked in mock-surprise. 'This has to be a record.' Fran smiled and leaned back against the kitchen counter. Then, proving his mother right in so many ways, he asked, 'You alright?'

Given how much she'd dreaded this afternoon, she supposed she had to conclude that she was. 'Your mother is…' she tailed off.

'When you figure out the end of that sentence, let me know? I've been trying for twenty-nine years, so take your time.'

Fran regarded him, and wondered what growing up with Annabel Miller as your mother was like. It would certainly be truthful, something Fran herself had always prided herself on being. Mrs Miller took truthful to a whole new level though, a level Fran wasn't sure she could ever be comfortable with. Repeatedly asserting her own child was lacking in intelligence and sense, however much she might believe it, was something Fran couldn't imagine ever doing quite so casually. The private admission that she knew of Max's greater qualities was nice but it wasn't quite enough. If she never said things like that to him directly, Fran wondered if he even knew.

'Do I have something on my face?' he asked now, deliberately camp and checking his reflection in a spoon. 'No, seriously, what is it?'

Truth, real honest truth, spilled out of her mouth. 'I wondered how your mum had made you into… _you_.'

'Thought you'd pick up some tips?' he said mockingly.

'Yes.' The simple answer wiped the grin off of his face. 'I want Rosie to be confident and happy and… fun.' She shrugged for want of a better way of summing up the qualities she admired in her daughter's father. 'I thought your mum might have some ideas. But…' She bit her lip and wondered if she should continue, before saying, 'it's in spite of her, isn't it?' Then, embarrassed, she said, 'You don't have to answer that.' She remembered how little she liked Cal's jibes at her father, and he'd been all but brought up with David Hardy as his father figure. Ethan was the only person she'd ever tolerate griping about their father's shortcomings. She expected Max was the same.

Max seemed to give her question serious thought though, missing the kettle's boiling point once again. After some time, he said thoughtfully, 'It's probably _because_ of her. I mean, she loves me, and Simon. She's… not so awful, really. But... well, she was never going to be the sort of mum who tells you you're wonderful all the time.'

'So you did it for yourself?'

'You make me sound incredibly vain.'

'Sorry.'

'It's alright.' He smiled good-naturedly. 'She's not a bad mum, not really. When you need her, she's there. Sometimes even when you don't need her,' he added, gesturing vaguely to this moment right here. 'Just promise me one thing.'

She nodded. Strange how she didn't even question what he was asking of her. She didn't know where her suspicion had gone when it came to Max.

'Don't ever tell Rosie she's being stupid. Even if she is, I mean. It's… it's not that nice.'

 _Not that nice_. That was the understatement of the century, and such a Max comment. It was the easiest promise she'd ever made.

* * *

Despite what his siblings thought, Cal didn't think that his bedside manner was his strong point. True, he was less inherently awkward than Ethan, and less dismissively abrupt than Fran, but it didn't mean it came naturally to him to have touchy-feely conversations like this. For once, he actually thought Lofty might be more highly qualified than he was, a feeling he wasn't sure he liked.

Looking at Mr Herzog now, he heard what he was hinting at in his head and again thought how ridiculous it was. Putting the moment off, he went in on a purely medical level. 'We've had your scan results back, and they're all clear. I'm going to make you a referral to ophthalmology as an outpatient, but our tests suggest that you'll be fine once the swelling goes down.'

'So I'm free to go?'

It was on the tip of Cal's tongue to say yes and duck the conversation. It would be so easy to do so. Then he caught Lofty's eye and took a deep breath.

'There is something else we'd like to discuss, actually, Mr Herzog. We've... noticed some other injuries.'

Mr Herzog blinked. 'What injuries?'

'The bruises,' Lofty put in. 'Down your side? I noticed them when you were having your scan. Are they new?'

'Oh those. They're… old, they're nothing.' Mr Herzog shook his head and made movements to leave. 'If there's nothing else, could you get my wife so we can go?'

'They were pretty big bruises,' Lofty continued, with more persistence than Cal would have given him credit for. 'What caused them?'

'I can't remember to be honest. But they're fine.'

'They must be painful.'

'They're fine!' Mr Herzog snapped. 'Now I'd really like to get going!' He swung his legs out of bed and his gasp of pain was undisguisable. Doubled up and clutching his side, even Mr Herzog seemed to know it.

'Okay, let's take a look at these,' Cal said, helping the man back onto the bed. It wasn't a long examination. Lofty's assessment of them as 'pretty big' was accurate, as was his suggestion that they were 'painful'. It hardly seemed possible that the man had been walking around with these for any length of time without yelling out.

'And you've had these how long?'

'A couple of weeks,' Damien reluctantly admitted. 'They're much better than they were.'

Cal could only imagine what they were like before then. 'And you got these how?'

A long silence as Damien looked from Lofty to Cal and back at the floor. 'She doesn't mean to do it,' he said finally, pitifully. 'She just gets mad sometimes and…' He shrugged helplessly, before saying again, 'She doesn't mean it.'

Letting out a long breath, Cal leaned against the side of the bed as he planned his next move.

'You know what she's doing is wrong?' Lofty put in. 'It's domestic violence.'

'It only happens sometimes. It's her hormones or something.' Damien shrugged again. 'It's… alright.'

'She's beating you black and blue,' Lofty pointed out.

'Yeah, alright, Lofty.' Cal threw him a warning look; such lyrical language wouldn't help on this occasion. Trying to tap into a more empathetic side (trying to become more like Ethan, he realised, with a start), he said, 'Look, we can… help you. There's all sorts of support we can offer.'

'We don't need it.'

'That's not what it looks like from here.'

You could feel how much this was costing him to say. 'Look at her. And look at me. People would never believe it.'

'We believe it,' Lofty pointed out.

Damien gave a snort of bitter laughter. 'Yeah, you do. That's not quite my point.' Then, in a smaller voice, 'I don't want to lose her. She's… amazing. It's… just this one thing.'

Cal rubbed his face. 'You're really sure?'

'Just give me the outpatients' appointment.'

Lofty's protestations started almost before they'd left the cubicle. 'Cal!'

'I know.'

'But she'll do it again!'

And again. And probably again. That was usually how these things went. Damien would be lucky, or unlucky, and one day he might pass through here and not leave again. Cal couldn't argue against Lofty; they both knew how this could end. Beyond all of the paperwork and covering their own backsides, they knew this could be fatal. The trouble was, you couldn't carry that with you, couldn't let everybody's problems become yours.

Now, as Lofty opened his mouth to say something more, Cal cut him dead with words which sounded so very right coming from him, even if they tasted wrong.

'You can't save everybody from themselves.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'm taking my break.'

* * *

Much as Max adored his daughter, and much as he'd have dropped everything if Fran had, for once, admitted that a couple of hours sleep during the day was not enough to battle with Rosie all night, he couldn't deny that he was grateful to be sleeping in his own house tonight, even if it was in Lofty's bed. The nurse was back at the hospital working overtime again, for a reason neither Max nor Robyn was privy to. All the time his step-sister had spent badgering him for information about the mystery woman would have been better spent tracking their flatmate's movements in Max's opinion.

Regardless of the reasons why Lofty was absent today, Max was thankful his friend had donated the empty bed to him. Sleeping on the sofa after what felt like one of the most stressful days in a while would have been the ultimate insult. Now all he had to do was to last through until his mother went to bed, and hope that Robyn didn't manage to fall out with her step-mother in that time. It was easier said than done. Robyn's reaction when he'd said Annabel was coming to stay was best described as 'unenthusiastic'.

Now, sitting in the living room, there was an awkward truce between them. Annabel had said something about Charlotte which had been taken entirely as it had been intended and Robyn had spent most of the evening sulking. The only thing which had even convinced her to join them in the living room was the promise she could choose what to watch. It was like a slightly less emotionally-fraught re-run of the evening Jeff had died.

'So, how was Francesca?' They were the first words Robyn had spoken in over an hour, and Max didn't much like the mischievous glint in her eye as she spoke. Much as she adored her niece, lavishing her with more presents and attention than Max was strictly sure she needed, the relationship between aunt and mother was still merely lukewarm. Robyn was good at forgiveness until somebody injured her family. Max supposed he should be flattered.

Now, though, he knew what her game was, and he didn't like it. Shooting her a look, all he got in return was an innocent smile.

Annabel barely glanced up from her book. 'She was very quiet. Is that normal?'

It wasn't what Robyn had been expecting as a retort and even Max was surprised. Fran _was_ quiet, he supposed, although over the few weeks he'd really got to know her, it wouldn't have been the first word he'd have used to describe her. Besides, most people were quiet around Annabel: that she'd even noticed was a story in itself.

'I hope it's not a sign of unintelligence.'

Max was unable to resist looking at Robyn, who managed to stifle a giggle. He was unable to hide his grin, a shared moment of recognition of how mad his mother was. Annabel had always been somewhat of a battleground between them; only Simon was usually allowed to criticise her. But this was different, and Max found he liked it. In briefly being united against his mother, they were sort of united on behalf of Fran. He wondered if Robyn had noticed that.

'She seems nice enough though.'

'Nice?' Robyn choked, even as Max gave her a filthy look. 'Francesca?'

Admittedly, 'nice' also wouldn't have been his first choice of adjective, but he wasn't quite as appalled as his step-sister. His main gripe was that there was a hell of a lot more to Fran than 'nice', but his mother was being pleasant: he wasn't going to argue with that.

'Well, she's an improvement on the last one he brought home. I mean, entirely insane for ever going near him, but you can't have everything.'

'I am still here!' Max pointed out. 'And who was the last one I brought home anyway?'

'You don't remember?' Robyn demanded, and he had to admit it sounded pretty awful. There was a very good reason he didn't tend to bring girls home anyway, and it was sitting right in front of them. He was fairly sure the last girl had been Laura Simmons and he already knew Robyn's feelings on her. And his mum was right, for once: Fran was an improvement on Laura.

Not that it was in any way the same thing at all.

* * *

 ** _Next time: The Outside_**

 _Max glanced up from where he was, presumably, hammering out a reply to Cal's sister. 'She's bringing Rosie in this afternoon.' Cal's double-take must have been visible, as he added, 'Hasn't she told you?'_

 _The short answer was: no. The long was very long indeed, and took Cal several drags on his cigarette to get straight in his head. The very idea, the very notion that his baby sister would bring her own baby into the hospital was beyond his wildest imaginings. Two weeks later and he was still struggling with her being a mum, despite Rosie being so very real that he couldn't remember her ever not being there. But even if he could vaguely attach that title to Fran, her being some socialite, parading her daughter in front of her colleagues as if this was a very ordinary day was an impossibility for him. Fran didn't do socialising or chin-wagging or whatever else you wanted to call it. She didn't do friends, which, he realised suddenly, was probably quite weird. But it was Fran. This was how she'd always been. Until now. Until Rosie. Until…_

* * *

Chapter title/lyrics from 'Spread Your Wings' by Robbie Williams


	26. Interlude 3

**Another little experiment. Not sure how I feel about this one.**

* * *

' _If you're gonna say something, just say it.'_

 _It's been a quiet afternoon, both in and outside the ambulance. She's been preoccupied, in a good way he'd say. She's been_ humming _, which is a very new thing. It's the first time he's seen her properly happy for a good while. He should be pleased. That she's realised he isn't means it must be really obvious._

' _You don't like him, do you?'_

' _Yeah I do. It's… not about that.'_

' _We're just friends.'_

 _There, right there, is why he's not jumping for joy. 'Friends'. She's not good at that. Most of the time he thinks she basically tolerates him in the way most people tolerate their family. There's a dearth of them for her here, so he's the next worst thing. This is something else altogether._

' _You know you're not supposed to sleep with friends, right?' Harsh but it gets a reaction from her._

' _Yes I know! We're not.'_

' _So what are you doing?'_

 _Guardedly, she asks, 'What do you mean?'_

' _What are you and your best buddy doing?' Too much sarcasm and she turns back to restocking the ambulance, slamming things into drawers and cabinets with more force than is necessary. No verbal warnings coming her way for a while; this thing is ready for the apocalypse._

 _After a while, she says, 'He's a nice guy.'_

 _He is. He's a really nice guy. There's probably not another guy like him in the immediate area. She could do a hell of a lot worse. And that's the main problem. He's nice. She's… He still doesn't know how that sentence ends._

 _He fights fire with fire, knowing how to close the conversation down. 'You heard from Max?'_

 _Bingo. The drawers get another kicking, and he's ducked out of having to think about her any more. It's mean but it works._


	27. The Outside

_This ain't the best view, on the outside looking in._

'Finally!' Iain exclaimed as Max walked out of the ED. 'Finally you're back.'

Max smiled quizzically. 'I didn't know you missed me so much.'

Iain rolled his eyes. 'I was thinking more of her.' He gestured towards the back of the ambulance. 'She's been like a kid without her playmate.'

Tiffany. Amongst everything, he'd forgotten about her. It was understandable given the circumstances, forgivable even: he had a two-week-old baby to worry about, one he hadn't been counting on. In comparison, a colleague struggling to get over her ex had to fall to the bottom of the list. Nobody would blame him for not giving her a second thought over the past few weeks. So much had changed since that morning on the bench. It wasn't his fault.

It didn't stop him feeling awful about it though. From the way Iain had greeted him, he guessed that she hadn't bounced back in the way she'd suggested she would. He could have spared her a five minute phone call.

Lowering his voice, he asked now, 'How is she?'

Iain shrugged and seemed about to say something when the subject of their conversation shouted from inside the ambulance, 'Iain, why can't you ever put anything back where it should be?'

That said everything Max needed to know; the Tiffany Gray he knew was even more untidy than her partner.

'Tiff,' Iain shouted back now. 'Come out here a second.'

'I'm right in the middle of-'

'Just come out here.'

A few more crashes inside the van heralded her stepping out into the sunshine. 'What?' she demanded, before she saw Max. Then, 'Oh.'

They both shuffled their feet like awkward teenagers. The feeling was only compounded as Ian said, 'I'll just be leaving you two to it then.'

'No, you…' Tiffany broke off as her partner walked away. She looked back at Max, dark eyes smouldering. 'So… what do you want?'

'I just… wondered how you were.' Max shrugged, hands finding their usual homes in his pockets. 'I haven't heard from you in the past couple of weeks.'

'Assumed you were busy.'

'Yeah, I was, but… I could have…' He tailed off. He could have done a lot, and probably should have done. The point was that he hadn't. 'Sorry.'

'Is that for not calling or for forgetting to tell me that you'd got Francesca Hardy knocked up?'

Wow. There was two weeks' worth of anger and hurt in one short sentence. Their last conversation came back to him now, the way she'd made him promise to fill her in when she got back from the call-out. By the time that had happened, he'd been in the lift with Fran, and then life had, very literally, taken over. Tiffany and her desire for gossip had fallen very far down his list of priorities. He hadn't even really considered whether she'd been told. That spoke volumes about him as a person, and he hated himself for it.

Trying to joke it off, like he always did, he said, 'Well, to be fair, I forgot to tell most people.'

Clearly not funny. 'I thought we were friends.'

'Yeah, we are.' He supposed. She used the word so often that he had given in.

'So what did you think I was gonna do?' she demanded, her Californian-twang stronger than ever in her anxiety. 'Run around telling everybody? Is that what you think of me?'

'No! I… I didn't tell anybody really. Fran didn't want people knowing.'

'Fran?'

'Francesca.' He was surprised to find himself blushing. Robyn and Lofty had only just got used to his calling her by the diminutive; he might have known Tiffany would grab hold of it.

'I'm not as useless as everybody thinks.'

'I never said you were useless. Is this really about me?'

'Who else is it gonna be about?' she threw back, eyes flashing furiously.

 _Ethan,_ Max thought to himself, but wisely said nothing. If Tiffany was going to continue to delude herself that everything was fine and rosy in the garden between her and her ex, he wasn't going to stir it up. She was riled up enough as it was.

'So are you and her…?'

It took a minute for him to catch on. 'Oh! No. We're not…' He shrugged. 'It's not that kind of thing.' He still wasn't sure exactly what kind of thing it was, even having spent the best part of a week in her company. For now, he was unwilling to disturb the easy truce that had settled between them. Fran had stopped talking about drawing up legal documents; he wasn't going to raise them in her mind again. 'We're going to bring Rosie up together.'

'Rosie?'

'We've called her Rosie.'

'Nice name.'

'Fran's choice.'

'She doesn't completely suck then.'

'Apparently not.' He was gratified to see a small smile on her face. 'You want to see a picture?'

The nod was one of a much younger person, a little girl exhausted from a tantrum and wanting some affection. He didn't mind; showing pictures of Rosie was his new favourite thing to do when he wasn't actually _with_ his daughter. Now he found it difficult to settle on one to show her, and instead resorted to handing over his phone wholesale.

'She's really small.'

'She's bigger than she was.' Max leaned over her shoulder. 'She's healthy, that's the important thing.'

Tiffany flicked through the pictures increasingly quickly, pausing briefly over one where Fran was just visible. 'She looks good. Bitch.'

Max smiled as the pictures continued to fly past. 'You're not a baby person?'

'They freak me out.' The honesty was refreshing.

'Me too.'

She raised an eyebrow at him. 'You've got one of your own.'

'Yeah, she's… different.' He shrugged.

'God. You're a dad. That's crazy.'

'I know.' It really was, and he was pleased somebody else thought so. He knew this wasn't about him in anyway, that Rosie was far more important in all of this than he or Fran were. But he was pleased that somebody was acknowledging what he felt pretty much twenty-four-hours a day.

She was calmer now, more rational, if Tiffany ever became completely rational. If he was ever going to get any sense out of her, now was probably the best time.

'So how are you?'

Her eyes didn't leave the screen as she shrugged. 'Okay.'

He risked it. 'How are you and Ethan?'

There was a brief pause in her scrolling through photos before she regained herself. 'We're cool. We're friends. For real, how many photos have you got of this kid?'

Changing the subject: very Tiffany. Still, there was nothing to be gained by pressing her further. 'Yeah, I've gone a bit overboard,' he agreed. 'So… are we good?'

'Depends. Are you gonna become one of those super-boring parents who only talks about their baby?'

'I'll try not to.'

She scrutinised him carefully. 'Okay then. If it means that much to you. Loser.'

Max smiled as she fell back to looking at his photos. One disgruntled woman dealt with. Now he just had to hope he could get Fran through this afternoon.

* * *

Cal wondered when he'd stop feeling awkward around Max. Now the seething anger had died away, he was left feeling mildly embarrassed in the porter's presence, unable to quite know how to converse with him. It manifested itself in small comments and digs which made Cal sound mean and childish, when they were qualities he usually tried to avoid. Tried and failed, his brother might comment; Cal wasn't entirely convinced by that line of argument.

And it was like he couldn't escape from Max all of a sudden. Ever since the porter had returned to work from his paternity leave, Cal seemed to share every cigarette, lunch and bathroom break with the man who had changed his sister's life irrevocably. It wasn't that he minded, per se, but some warning, perhaps a transition period, wouldn't have gone amiss. Even a memo: Cal could deal with memos.

But no. Here he was again, and Cal was having to drag some semblance of manners from whatever dusty chest he'd locked them away in.

'Hey.'

'You alright?' Max nodded his greeting as he pulled out a cigarette packet and lit one up. Cal wondered if Fran was aware of quite how advanced his nicotine habit was. He somehow doubted she'd let him hold Rosie at all if she did; her passion for clean-living was sometimes impossible to credit. Cal supposed it was in ways like that that the gap between Fran and himself was most obvious.

Awkward silence. Cal toyed with the idea of making Max work for this, leaving him to carry the conversation. It was with a start that he realised that he was more uncomfortable in this situation than the porter was, and led him to say, rather hastily and idiotically, 'Busy day?'

Max shrugged. 'You know.' Then he took out his phone as if Cal wasn't even there, laughed to himself and didn't even explain why.

'Share the joke,' Cal said uneasily, forcing a smile and trying not to get too irritated. His cigarette finished, he immediately lit another.

Max held his phone up casually. 'Fran's running late. I didn't think that was something Hardys did.'

It wasn't. Being punctual was, for David Hardy, very much above godliness, and both his children had inherited a love for synchronising watches. It was just another one of Cal's attempts at rebellion which meant he was a carefully studied seven and a half minutes late for everything. Which, he realised now, was not only more effort than being on time in the first place, but really rather pathetic. It wasn't something he felt like sharing.

Besides, there were more important things to discuss. 'Late for what?'

Max glanced up from where he was, presumably, hammering out a reply to Cal's sister. 'She's bringing Rosie in this afternoon.' Cal's double-take must have been visible, as he added, 'Hasn't she told you?'

The short answer was: no. The long was very long indeed, and took Cal several drags on his cigarette to get straight in his head. The very idea, the very notion that his baby sister would bring her own baby into the hospital was beyond his wildest imaginings. Two weeks later and he was still struggling with her being a mum, despite Rosie being so very real that he couldn't remember her ever not being there. But even if he could vaguely attach that title to Fran, her being some socialite, parading her daughter in front of her colleagues as if this was a very ordinary day was an impossibility for him. Fran didn't do socialising or chin-wagging or whatever else you wanted to call it. She didn't do _friends_ , which, he realised suddenly, was probably quite weird. But it was Fran. This was how she'd always been. Until now. Until Rosie. Until…

Cal eyed Max suspiciously. 'How have you convinced her to do that?'

Max shrugged again. 'She just sort of agreed.' As if this was no big deal. As if she did stuff like this all the time. Cal wondered if he heard himself when he spoke.

Feeling difficult, Cal said, 'Well, is that a good idea? A baby, in an ED? She could catch anything.'

'We're not going to station her in resus,' Max pointed out. 'I… wanted people to meet her. They've been nice.'

Cal knew that. Fran's flat was like a florist crossed with a baby superstore by now, and that was just from the stuff Max himself had produced. Where people found the money for the endless outfits and toys, he had no clue: he'd never realised how expensive babies were. But find the money they had. Rosie was the best loved baby in Holby, and Cal had to admit he sort of liked that, and, yes, it was mainly down to Max. Mr Popular. Cal tried not to sound too bitter even to himself when he thought that.

Still, he pursued this avenue of tactical undermining. 'Couldn't everybody meet her after work?'

'You'd prefer she was at the pub?' Max asked with a flash of a grin which said he knew exactly what Cal was doing and he'd beat him at his own game. 'She's way underage. Fran's cool with this.' He pocketed his phone and finished his cigarette. 'Catch you later.'

Cal smoked another two before he felt calm enough to head back into work.

* * *

For eleven months, Fran had walked in and out of the ED without giving it a second thought. It had been part of the larger routine of work. She'd park her car, cross the car park and slip in the doors without hesitation.

Today was different. She couldn't believe it had been nearly a month since she'd last walked inside these doors to end the day in a hospital bed, bruised, battered and a new mother. She supposed that in itself might give some people pause for thought, but she'd never been superstitious. Besides, she had no need to use a lift today.

Her trepidation had a very different source from mere anxiety that lightning might strike twice. Today was a day she'd been privately dreading ever since she'd made the decision to keep Rosie. Sooner or later, she'd known the day would have to come when she set foot inside these doors again, holding Rosie in her arms and face all of those people who she'd been nothing short of horrible to for months on end.

Max had insisted that she didn't need to come. 'I can take her in, show her off and be back again in time for her next feed.'

But that wasn't an option. It wasn't that she didn't trust Max; by now, she had little choice left. He'd get Rosie to the hospital and back in one piece. He'd also make a far better job of showing her off than Fran ever would, because people liked Max and would take huge pleasure in meeting his daughter. She had a feeling her presence would put a dampener on proceedings.

Staring at the doors now, she tried to remember why she'd been so adamant that she had to be here. The next hour (she was hoping it would only be an hour) was looking much like the toughest hour so far since Rosie had been born, and that was saying something.

She took a deep breath.

'Francesca!'

Exhaustion swept through Fran's body as she heard the unmistakable voice of Ethan's whatever-she-was this week.

'God! How are you?' Tiffany at least stubbed out her cigarette before coming over to where Fran was. Even so, Fran tilted Rosie away from her, hoping to avoid polluting her daughter's delicate lungs. 'And how's… the baby?' The vague gesture almost made Fran smile; it was the first time she'd seen Tiffany unsure of anything.

'We're fine, thank you.' Fran nodded, practising the manners she'd need for the next fifty minutes (this counted, right?).

'She's really tiny, isn't she?' Tiffany continued staring at Rosie as if she was some kind of alien creature. Then, shaking herself, she said, 'I did get her something. I haven't got it on me, I'll… give it to Max or…'

It had amazed Fran how kind people could be when a baby was concerned. Her family had been one thing, Max another, but the bunch of flowers and balloon that had arrived at her flat from the department had been something else. Every day, Max had dropped round the flat with another gift for Rosie, ranging from clothes to toys to gilded money boxes. They'd all been so generous. Now here was another reminder of how loved Max, and by extension his daughter, was.

'That's very kind of you,' she said now, forcing a smile.

'It's nothing much,' Tiffany insisted.

'It's nice of you.'

The paramedic shrugged. 'It's cool.' Then, 'I'll let you get on. I'll… see you around.'

Fran nodded. It was a strange situation when somebody so tied up in her brother's life was a relative stranger to her. Ethan almost never mentioned her, yet according to Cal, the two of them had spent more time together than seemed possible in such a short time. That was when they weren't spending no time at all together, which was apparently equally as common. It sounded exhausting.

Still, she'd braved one awkward conversation today. Only another twenty to go, she thought, hitching the nappy bag higher on one shoulder and swapping hands with the car-seat. She could do this.

The ED was its usual self. She didn't know why she'd thought it would be any different; it had only been three and a half weeks, and it wasn't as thought she was an integral part of it all. Holby City General Hospital had existed before she'd arrived and she was certain it would continue when she was long gone. It was still strange.

What had changed was how people reacted to her. Or, more accurately, how they reacted to who she was carrying. For months, people had gone for one of two options when looking at Fran's bump: open staring or determined avoidance. Rosie commanded their complete attention. Even Louise's sour demeanour was instantly changed by one look at Rosie's face.

'She is precious,' she declared, coming out from behind the desk. 'How on earth is she Max's?'

'Good question.' Fran wasn't sure where the quip came from, and tensed up, wondering if she'd said the wrong thing. Max was one of the family here, and she knew what it was like when outsiders criticised your family.

Then, Louise's eyes flashed from Rosie to Fran. She assessed the doctor closely for half a second, before a smirk spread onto her face. The seal of approval.

'Wait there,' the receptionist said. 'I've got something for her.'

'But the department already sent flowers…'

Louise gave her a withering look. 'What use are flowers? I saw this and couldn't resist.' She thrust a parcel into Fran's free hand. 'Congratulations, by the way.'

'Thank… you.' Fran blinked several times.

'Francesca!' The look on Charlie's face was one of complete joy at seeing her. She wasn't sure anybody had ever looked at her like that. 'Congratulations.'

'Thank you.' She wondered how often she'd have to say that today.

'Well, don't just stand there. Come in.' He gestured towards the staffroom. 'Do you want me to take anything?'

Shaking her head, Fran followed him into the staffroom, where it seemed more than half of the department were corralled. Mrs Beauchamp was notably absent and Fran wondered how she'd react to this impromptu party. She really hoped she wasn't going to get the blame for this.

'There she is, my favourite niece!' Robyn pounced before Fran could really draw breath, appropriating the car-seat and releasing Rosie from the straps. 'Come and meet some new people, darling!'

'Be… careful,' Fran said, hesitantly, not wanting to be that woman, the one who caused problems and fussed over her baby for no reason. Robyn was a nurse and, more importantly, she was Rosie's aunt. If anybody could be trusted with her, it was Robyn. So Fran just about managed to hold her tongue as Robyn introduced Rosie to Lofty and Noel and Ash and all manner of other people whose names Fran had never learnt and she doubted she ever would. Now certainly wasn't the time to even attempt to commit names to memory; all of Fran's energy was taken up with watching to make sure her daughter's head was supported at all times.

'Hurricane Robyn strikes again.' A quiet dry voice in her ear made Fran jump. Max's face stretched into an apologetic smile. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. You alright? Get here okay then?'

She nodded at his meaningless questions.

'You know, you don't have to let Robyn steal her away like that.'

Fran watched as Noel tickled Rosie's feet, a goofy smile on his face, as Robyn grinned. 'It's okay. I want Rosie to make friends.'

Max seemed about to say something when Noel interrupted her. 'Hey, Max, luckily for you she's got her mother's looks.'

'Just like Honey, yeah?' Max replied effortlessly, staffroom banter his speciality. He fitted in here so well. These people gathered around, fussing over Rosie – this was their way of saying how much Max meant to them.

Suddenly self-conscious, she turned for the door.

'Fran?'

'I just need a moment.' She hoped he wouldn't follow her. There was only one place she really wanted to be right now and having Max tail her wouldn't help. Because if he belonged in the staffroom, laughing and joking with his colleagues, his _friends_ , she belonged out there, one of the only places she'd ever felt as if she was doing anything worthwhile.

The ED was having one of its rare relatively quiet days. That didn't mean that the cubicles weren't still filled and the waiting room wasn't occupied, just that nobody was having a mini-breakdown over the impossible targets and level of staffing. Or at least, they wouldn't be ordinarily.

'Oh, now it all makes sense.'

Fran was startled to find Tess Bateman staring at her. Smiling, yes, but staring nonetheless.

'All of my nursing staff disappear when you return. Would I be right in thinking they're all in the staffroom passing your daughter around like a packet of sweets?'

The accuracy of her statement was alarming. Unable to think of anything else to say, she said what she felt was required: 'Sorry.'

Then Tess smiled. 'Don't be silly, it's not your fault. How are you?'

Fran had replied automatically when Tiffany had asked; the paramedic had asked casually, incidentally, because it was what you did. This was different. Tess seemed genuinely interested, looking at Fran like her own mother had. For a moment, Fran wondered if she should be honest; if she _could_ be honest.

She tried her best. 'I'm tired.'

'I hope you're making Max do his fair share.'

'Oh yeah.' To some extent. It wasn't for want of his trying. In the week since he'd gone back to work, he'd barely been at home. Almost every waking minute had been spent attending to his daughter's needs, only going home when she'd been put to bed. Even on his day off, he'd spent his time doing everything he possibly could to prove he was a good dad. He didn't have to try anymore, Fran thought, thinking she should really tell him: he already was a good dad.

Always there was an awkwardness though, a moment when he stood up and said he was going home. A pause, where he seemed to want her to say something, invite him to stay. Then she'd say nothing and he'd turn to go. It was routine by now. She didn't know why she couldn't let him stay, do some of the night-feeds. It wasn't failure. She just wished she could convince herself of that.

* * *

Ethan heard the clattering of heels behind him as he left the hospital at the end of his shift, and he would have liked to pretend he hadn't slowed down to accommodate them. If he was sensible, he'd walk on, let her catch him up, act surprised, and move on. It would be the clever thing to do.

'Ethan!' Tiffany drew level with him. Then, as if she realised she'd basically been chasing after him, she added, 'Hey,' a little shyly. 'You alright?'

He nodded. 'And you?'

'Yeah, I'm good.' She nodded.

Ethan raised his eyebrows. 'You… wanted me?'

'Oh! Oh God, yeah!' She gave a somewhat breathless giggle before thrusting an untidily wrapped parcel into his hands. 'It's for Francesca. Well, Rosie really, I guess. I… I didn't know she was coming in today and I said I'd give it to Max or somebody, but I thought maybe you could…'

Ethan stared at it as though he'd never seen a present before. He didn't know why it felt so precious and so dangerous all in one go. 'That's… really kind of you.'

She shrugged. 'It's what people do.'

Ethan knew that; he just was surprised that it was something _Tiffany_ would do. To his knowledge, Tiffany and Fran had never spoken, not really. And besides, buying presents for babies just didn't seem her style. He was surprised she was this organised.

Now, as he continued to stare at it, she said, 'It's nothing, it's just some dumb stuffed toy. She can totally just put it in the trash if she doesn't like it, no biggie.'

'She'll like it,' Ethan said. 'I'll make sure she gets it. Thank you.' He held her gaze for a long moment and was on the brink of saying something else, something quite different entirely, before he really noticed what she was wearing. Never casually dressed, she looked rather too pulled together to be planning a quiet night in at home in her fancy shorts and sparkly heels. She was on her way out, somewhere, with someone. It gave him pause.

As if she knew, she looked down at her outfit. 'I'm going to a bar in town with… a friend. You could… come,' she offered, in the voice of somebody who very much didn't want him to. Tiffany wasn't a girls' girl; the friend was male, not Iain, and Ethan most definitely wouldn't fit in.

Trying to pretend it didn't matter, he said, 'Oh, no, I'm… busy tonight actually. You… have a good evening.'

'Yeah, you too.' Tiffany nodded and hesitated, eyes slipping from his to the ground and back again. Something like uncertainty passed across her face and it seemed as though she was going to speak. Ethan waited. He wondered just how long he'd wait to find out what she had to say.

In the event, he didn't get to find out. 'I'll see you, then,' she said, before turning and walking away.

Ethan stood for altogether too long watching her go, before turning towards his car and a very long evening in with his brother.

* * *

'Are you going to say what's bothering you or just pace around all evening?'

Cal turned away from the canal-side view and looked at where Ethan was watching TV. Or was pretending to anyway; even his little brother couldn't be finding a programme about super sheds interesting. 'Why would anything be bothering me?'

'You've been smoking out of your bedroom window again. Which, by the way, is against the management company rules and one day you will get found out.'

Cal resisted the urge to stick his tongue out. He'd assumed Ethan hadn't noticed his trick when he was too tired to make yet another trip outside for a cigarette (or when he frankly couldn't be bothered; he still failed to understand how you could own your own flat and still have people dictating how you used it). That he'd been busted so easily brought out the very worst in him.

'Well, it's your flat, so I won't be the one getting a slap on the wrist, or whatever it is they do.'

Ethan forced a small smile onto his face; it looked pained and entirely fake. Cal realised with a start how familiar that face was – it was practically his default setting around his big brother. Cal had never known how annoying he was.

'Okay, so don't tell me,' was all Ethan said, as if he knew that would bring all of Cal's irritations spilling forth. He probably did; he'd had over thirty years to work out all of his brother's buttons. It was another thing which gave Cal pause for thought, albeit very briefly.

Without any further preamble, he launched into, 'What do you think of Max?'

'Max?'

'Yeah. Max.' When Ethan didn't immediately reply, he continued with, 'Max, the porter. The one who shagged your sister.'

'Yeah, thanks.' Ethan gave him a disgusted look. 'I know who Max is. I just didn't know I was supposed to think anything about him.'

'Don't you think he's a bit too…' Cal struggled for the right word, unsure how he could sum up the man's casual confidence. Finally, he chose, 'Comfy?' before realising just how old that made him sound.

'Comfy?' Ethan repeated.

'Yeah, alright.'

'You seriously used the word 'comfy'?'

'Yeah, okay! So… what, you don't agree?'

For a long moment, Cal found himself underneath his brother's scrutiny, and he couldn't help wondering what he saw. He didn't hold out much hope.

Eventually, thankfully, Ethan spoke. 'Is this really about Max?'

'What else is it going to be about?'

'Fran?'

'What?' Cal scoffed. 'What is that even supposed to mean?'

'You and Fran are close.'

'This has nothing to do with Fran. I just think Max is… overconfident.'

'Says you?'

Exasperated, Cal said, 'Yeah, alright, Ethan! If you're not even going to take this seriously-'

'I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be taking seriously,' Ethan replied. 'Was he my favourite guy six months ago? No. Am I still a bit annoyed that he, as you so beautifully put it, _shagged_ Fran? Yes. But he's taking responsibility, and he's a nice guy.' He shrugged. 'I don't really know what your problem is. I thought you'd be pleased.'

'Pleased?'

'She could have done far worse for herself. And they're not even _together_. He's just being a good guy, a good dad. Can't you give him a break?'

Cal thought about that. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to explain to Ethan why he had such an issue with this. It wasn't something he expected people like his brother or Fran were familiar with. Especially Fran. People with parents who cared and worried and were always there wouldn't understand why the mere idea of his siblings making poor choices concerned Cal so much. He hadn't been joking when he'd told Ethan he was all he had; Ethan and Fran were it for him.

So he didn't feel too bad when he replied, 'No,' before leaving the room. People messing with his brother and sister didn't get to have a break; they didn't deserve one.

* * *

 ** _Next time: You've Got a Friend_**

 _'But Rosie Hardy.' Cal pulled a face. 'It sounds like an author of those books about small villages in the 1940s where girls get knocked up by American soldiers.'_

 _Max was about to comment on how detailed Cal's description of those books had been, almost as if he had intimate personal knowledge of them ; in the month since Rosie's birth the two of them had reached a sort of impasse comprised of banter which just stayed on the right side of civil. Cal had had his chance with Max's middle name; this was his for the taking._

 _And then, like always, Fran blindsided him._

 _'Yes, but Rosie Walker sounds like CEO of her own company.'_

* * *

Lyrics/song title comes from 'The Outside' by Taylor Swift (a song I have never actually heard)


	28. You've Got a Friend

**Sorry for the long delay, real life has been taking over rather a lot of late - in an entirely good way. I'll be far better at updating once I'm back at work.**

* * *

 _Just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I'll come running to see you again._

'This is Elsie Tapton, eighty-five years old, found by a neighbour after a fall at home. Query fractured left hip. She says she didn't lose consciousness at any time-'

'-And she can speak perfectly well for herself,' Elsie cut across Iain's words. 'It's my hip that's broken, not my tongue.'

Iain and Ethan shared a grin as the paramedic concluded with, 'We've given ten of morphine on route. Shall we get her across on my count?'

'Hi Elsie, my name's Doctor Hardy. I'm going to be treating you today,' Ethan explained as they lifted her across and the nursing staff began taking vital readings. 'Is there anybody we can contact for you?'

'Oh, no, I don't want to bother anybody.' Elsie shook her head. 'Just patch me up and I'll be on my way.'

Ethan gave her a smile but didn't acknowledge her words. He'd seen this kind of patient before: the ones who had lived through a war and to whom everything else seemed hardly worth bothering with. Easy enough, and certainly not the sort of patient to make a fuss, but he hated to be the one to bring home how much they themselves had changed since those days when their primary concern had been bombs and invasions.

'You've got your daughter down as your next of kin. Would you like us to call her?' Rita asked, glancing down the notes that she'd unearthed.

'Is it really necessary?' Elsie asked, looking for all the world as if they were making a huge deal out of nothing. 'She's at work.'

Rita exchanged a look with Ethan. 'It might be nice for you.'

Resigned, Elsie said, 'Well, if you really think so. But don't worry her, tell her not to rush. I'm fine.'

And Elsie was fine, sort of. Her assertion that she hadn't lost consciousness seemed true, judging by her general alertness and the scans Ethan sent her for. She was sparky and awake and charmed just about everybody in the department. She had also shattered her left hip, a tricky bone at any age, and only worse the older you got. She was eighty-five; Ethan hated cases like this.

So he was less than enamoured when Cal's opening line at lunch was, 'How's the old woman?' Sensitivity never his strong point, it was as if he could read his brother's mind and deny him the chance to escape from his least favourite of cases for even half an hour. Knowing Cal, perhaps that was precisely what he was doing.

'Broken hip,' Ethan said, surveying his sandwich with some disappointment; all his best intentions to eat healthily always ended with him discarding his depressing lunches and heading straight to the canteen.

'Better pack her off to orthopaedics then,' was Cal's response, followed by, 'What?' when Ethan threw him a disgusted look.

'Are you actually capable of sensitivity?'

'I asked how she was, didn't I?' Cal rolled his eyes. 'She's a patient, Ethan.'

'She's also a human. She deserves some of our compassion. She's somebody's mum, Cal, people care about her.'

Cal shrugged. 'So let them care, and we can do our job.'

After thirty-two years, Ethan might have thought he'd seen everything when it came to his older brother. If he was asked for three words to describe Cal, 'tactless' would definitely feature. It was almost an art-form, the way he did it, callous comments said without so much as a flicker of an eyelid. The words themselves were no shock; he'd said worse many a time before. It was the occasion which left Ethan unable to believe that he shared DNA with the man in front of him.

His dismay must have been apparent on his face, as Cal sighed. 'Oh come on, Nibbles, don't get all emotional about it.'

It was the final straw. Ethan hesitated, on the brink of saying something, before choosing to keep his dignity instead, sweeping his sandwich into the bin and heading outside, where at least the sunshine might lift his mood a little. Blaming Cal for his short temper today was unfair; it was always going to be a difficult day. He had just hoped his brother might, for once, prove more of a help than a hindrance.

'So, what's he done now?'

Ethan jumped, just like he always did, because Tiffany came from nowhere in a cloud of nicotine. How she'd done that, he had no idea: immediately nailed what was causing him to frown like this. Her awareness of his relationship with Cal had come as a surprise the first time she'd mentioned it all those weeks ago: a surprise and a shock. Now he was simply bemused as to how she knew so much.

Unwilling to share quite yet, he shook his head, shrugging it off. 'How are you?' It felt like days since he'd last seen the paramedic, their shifts never quite aligning. Now he realised with a start that he'd missed her. That wasn't in the plan.

Nonchalant as ever, she shrugged and blew a plume of smoke in the other direction.

'Good shift?' he prompted. Then, remembering when Elsie had been brought in, 'You're not with Iain?'

The look of horror which passed over her face almost made him laugh. 'I'm with Dixie.'

'Oh dear.' Managing to quell his laughter, he was unable to resist a smile. 'And you're still alive?'

'I'm like a cockroach, indestructible.' She gave him a self-confident wink, but then resumed smoking as if it was something she'd looked forward to all day. If Dixie had been in charge, Ethan thought that was probably true; where Iain dealt with the fact that Tiffany sloped off during the boring bits, Dixie likely kept the Californian on a much tighter leash.

'But hey,' Tiffany said now, pausing for dramatic effect before saying, 'Sun! Actual sun for more than two days in a row. Is this a British record?'

'Sometimes it even happens for a week,' Ethan told her, dead-pan, before grinning as she dramatically reacted and fanned herself. Grinning: that was something he'd forgotten about recently. In amongst work and Fran's dramas and Cal's strops, there hadn't been much room for grinning. This was nice.

'So how's the old lady?' Tiffany clarified as he gave her a quizzical look. 'We listen in on the radio. I know, I know, sue us. So how is she?'

'Broken hip.'

'Bummer.'

'Yeah.' Somehow it didn't sound so awful coming from her.

'If I ever get old, just shoot me. I'm serious!' she insisted. 'I don't ever want to get old. Live fast, die young, right?'

That youth thing again, Ethan thought, looking at her. Ten years ago, he might have said the same thing. Working in emergency medicine, he saw his fair share of old age ailments, enough to make the thought of ageing less than attractive. Trips, falls, illness, dementia – they all painted a pretty bleak picture of the future. He'd likely made flippant comments like this back then. But not now, for one very simple reason, which spilled out of him.

'It's my mum's birthday today. She'd be sixty-seven.' As the smile faded from Tiffany's face, he added, 'Cal's forgotten.'

'Shit.'

He didn't really acknowledge that. Having sold him down the river, now he was trying to rehabilitate Cal. 'He forgets most people's birthdays, to be fair, it's not a personal thing. And it's not as though it's any different from any other day.'

'That's not the point.'

'No. I know.'

'He's a dick.'

Ethan didn't reply. He wasn't sure if he agreed or not, but, for one moment, it was nice for somebody to voice what he could never say.

'What was she like? Your mum,' Tiffany clarified. 'You've never mentioned her.'

He knew that. It had never been especially deliberate; he'd never put a filter on what he did and didn't share with Tiffany. But he rarely talked about his mother to anybody, least of all the people he was closest to. He couldn't remember the last time he and Cal had discussed her, even in passing, and after that brief awkward conversation with Fran last year, they'd glossed over it. Perhaps her new-found role in life would make her easier to talk to about this sort of thing. It seemed a hell of a leap to make.

So Ethan had internalised it all in the past eighteen months, never letting his thoughts escape from his head. It was pretty crowded in there by now. It was just tough to choose what he could entrust to Tiffany. Besides, how could he sum up one woman, his _mother_ in a simple throwaway soundbite? The eulogy he'd delivered at the funeral hadn't been enough, and this wouldn't be either. But maybe that was alright.

'She was reliable,' he said finally, knowing how pathetic that sounded. Of all the aspects of the wonderful woman Diana Hardy had been, he'd picked the one which made her sound most every day, mundane and boring. It was an appalling tribute.

'So, Cal takes after his dad then?' Tiffany put in, and somehow Ethan just knew: she got it. She knew what being reliable meant in a family where people walked out and had rows and left and never stood by their word. Strong male figures were in short supply in Ethan's life growing up: his mother certainly knew how to pick them when it came to men. But she'd been there, always. It was possibly the thing he missed most about her. Nobody else had ever come close to taking her place.

'Do you wanna….' Tiffany tailed off, in a most un-Tiffany-like way, before regaining her usual confidence and finishing with, 'Do you wanna do something tonight? Like… I don't know. We could… do something for your mom?'

Ethan was unable to stop himself from staring at her, taking in her face anew and wondering how this was the same woman who had shouted such hurtful things at him less than five hundred metres away from where they were now sat. Everything else was the same, from her barely-regulation eyeliner to the casual bed-hair. It was just the words that were different.

'Or… not. You know.' Tiffany shrugged when he gave no response, and he saw that momentary flicker of anxiety pass across her face before she put on her usual mask again. 'It's cool, I should be getting back to work anyway, so it doesn't matter-'

'Tiffany.' Ethan cut her off. She stopped immediately, huge eyes looking into his, and making his response the only one it could be: 'That sounds good. I'll… see you later?'

'Sure.' She nodded and that sunny smile erupted across her face again, more cheerful than he'd seen her in ages. 'I'll see you at the end of my shift.'

Ethan nodded as she walked away, knowing the knot of tension in his stomach wasn't necessarily a good feeling, but for once, not really caring. Today was turning out to be a bad day; he deserved a decent evening. He wasn't going to feel guilty for wanting that.

* * *

Finding Fran in the middle of general hubbub in the staffroom was more than a small change from the days when Max used to find her stood outside of the circle, doing everything in her power not to be noticed. True, she still didn't look entirely comfortable with the noise around her, but at least she had a way of distracting people: Rosie was just about the best distraction Max had ever come across. Even he was momentarily caught by his daughter's gurgles and what he liked to think were smiles, though Fran, cynical to the last, insisted were just wind.

'I thought we were meeting outside?' he asked now, as Cal and Robyn all but did battle over the right to hold their niece. He wondered if it was time they began rationing people's holding-rights in order to avoid Rosie becoming completely spoiled before she made it to a month old.

Fran shrugged, the smallest smile on her face. 'I tried.'

'And I said there was absolutely no way my only niece was hanging around outside a hospital!' Robyn half-reprimanded the two of them, half-cooed to Rosie.

'She's not your only niece,' Max reminded her. 'Charlotte's daughter?'

Robyn turned her attention back to the baby, saying without words what she thought to that input. Max would have been a little shocked at her complete rejection of her sister's child if it hadn't placed his own daughter higher up the pecking order. He was entitled to some favouritism, after all.

'So, today's the day.' Ethan, pushed out from the baby-adoration team, looked between Max and his sister. He made it sound much more ceremonial than Max suspected it really would be: registering Rosie's name was likely more sleep-fest than the kind of naming ceremony outlined in _Sleeping Beauty_ (and it was strictly between Max and Rosie how much he was already looking forward to watching all those princess films with her; nobody else needed to know. Really, nobody). But Ethan somehow made it sound exciting and special, rather than a chore piling on at the end of what had already been a rather long day.

One glance at Fran, though, and Max suspected his day didn't come close to how long hers had been. He wondered again at what point she was going to take him up on the offer he'd made the day they took Rosie home. Maybe it was time he reminded her of it, because he was pretty sure nobody's skin was supposed to look that pale unless they were properly seriously ill.

'You're sure it's Rosie?' Cal questioned, as he handed baby-holding duties over to Robyn.

'Certain.'

'No middle name?'

'No. Well, not unless…' And there was that moment of indecision which still sat uneasily on her shoulders as her eyes flew to Max's. 'I mean, we haven't talked about…'

'Who needs a middle name?' Max shrugged nonchalantly. 'I've never used mine.'

'Yeah, but you are named after your granddad,' Robyn put in. 'Sebastian isn't usually in the top ten baby names for a reason.'

'Sebastian?' Cal only just stifled his laughter.

'Yeah, alright.' Max rolled his eyes good-naturedly, pleased to see Fran grinning now; she looked less tired when she smiled. 'Like I said, Rosie doesn't need one.'

'But Rosie Hardy.' Cal pulled a face. 'It sounds like an author of those books about small villages in the 1940s where girls get knocked up by American soldiers.'

Max was about to comment on how detailed Cal's description of those books had been, almost as if he had intimate personal knowledge of them ; in the month since Rosie's birth the two of them had reached a sort of impasse comprised of banter which just stayed on the right side of civil. Cal had had his chance with Max's middle name; this was his for the taking.

And then, like always, Fran blindsided him.

'Yes, but Rosie Walker sounds like CEO of her own company.'

Max knew he wasn't imagining the silence which followed her words, and he fought to look anywhere but at his step-sister, because Robyn's eyebrows were working overtime to catch his attention. Cal and Ethan weren't much better people to look at as they seemed just as alarmed as he was, and he wasn't sure that Cal wasn't marginally more disturbed, proof positive of the fragility of the ceasefire between them.

The only person who it seemed safe to look at was Fran, and she wasn't even looking at him. Having reclaimed her daughter from Robyn, too shell-shocked to argue for a longer cuddle, Fran was clipping her daughter back into her car seat and preparing to head outside. Max wasn't sure whether she had noticed the silence or not. She had excellent form for ignoring things she didn't want to deal with.

So now when she looked up at him and asked, 'You ready to go?' he merely nodded and followed in her wake.

He maintained the silence for the whole drive to the registry office, not even remarking on Fran's choice of album (what seemed to be the greatest hits of Tru Steppers, something he hadn't even known was possible). Even when they were seated in the overheated building, placed in a queue despite seeming to be the only people there, he still couldn't quite find the words to broach the subject she'd introduced with such ease.

Or maybe not. Because, in a stark break with tradition, it was Fran whose mouth wouldn't stop moving right now. Admittedly, she was talking to Rosie, something she seemed to do without even being aware of it, which Max found surprisingly endearing. Even so, it was unlike her to talk quite so much.

'I suppose you would be asleep now. Probably the most important day in your life so far and you're asleep. This is what happens when you decide to stay awake all night.'

'All night?' Max prompted, because discussing Rosie's insomnia was easier than anything else.

'As good as. I think she missed a few hours around three.' Fran spoke with a battle-weary smile on her face. 'I must just be wonderful entertainment for her.' Then, with a slightly grimmer smile, she added, 'And if she sleeps now, I suppose we'll see two am again tonight.'

Again with the self-reliance, this idea that she was doing this on her own which simply wasn't true. Or at least, it didn't have to be, if she didn't want it to be, and given what she'd just said…

'Walker.'

He was aware how ridiculous he sounded as Fran turned away from Rosie and blinked. 'What?'

'Walker. You said… Walker.' He swallowed, as though that would reset his brain and everything would make sense. When it didn't, he fell back on humour as a way to ask a difficult question. 'Did I miss that memo?'

'No. I thought… I thought you'd like it.' That doubt again. He wondered if she knew how much nicer it made her seem. 'You do, don't you?'

'Yeah, of course. It's… it's great. I just didn't know that's what we were doing.' He tried not to stress the pronoun. Then, a little bolder, he added, 'I meant what I said, Fran. I want to be a part of her life. A proper part.'

'I know! You are. You… will be.' This was unfair, he briefly thought, as Fran's voice became uncomfortably high-pitched; it was unfair of him to be having this conversation with her now. Raking a hand through her unusually unruly hair, she said, 'That's what I'm doing.'

'Then let me stay over tonight.' He hadn't known he was going to say it quite like that, but the words kept coming. 'Come on, Fran, you look wrecked-'

'Thanks.'

'I didn't mean it like that, but... come on. You can't do it all by yourself.'

'I've been doing okay.'

'I never said you hadn't.' This was the sort of conversational one-way system Fran always took him down, a bewildering series of exchanges which left him disorientated and certain he'd said at least three things wrong. He'd always thought he was quick-witted, but she managed to trip him up every time. And make his brain hurt, he thought, as he dropped his head into his hands. This wasn't how he'd seen today going; it was the first time they'd exchanged even a mildly irritated word since Rosie had been born.

They sat in silence for a while, Rosie fast asleep at their feet. Max let her distract him. He hadn't known it would be like this. Babies were good and everything; whatever Robyn said, he'd often found the best thing about Charlotte to be her seemingly infinite fertility and the entertaining succession of children she'd had over the past few years. Max thought he made a pretty good uncle. But he hadn't realised how different it would be this time. He hadn't known that a single flicker from Rosie's eyelid would hold his attention for many minutes, or that he'd find something new and amazing about her every single day. He hadn't been prepared for being a father.

'I didn't know it would be like this.' For a moment, he had to remind himself that he wasn't talking. Lifting his head, he looked at Fran, who was fiddling with her cardigan sleeves again, a familiar sight by now. 'I knew it would be… hard. I knew she'd be demanding. But…'

'You're doing great.' He felt she needed to know that. It was the sort of thing he'd want to be told if he was in her position. 'I'm not criticising you, Fran.'

'I'm just so tired.'

After the smallest pause, Max said in a gentle voice, 'So let me help.'

Another long moment of silence. 'I don't have a spare bed.'

'I'll sleep on the sofa.'

'You've got work tomorrow.'

'I don't mind. Fran.' Max finally forced her to look at him. 'It's my turn.'

A door opened. 'Francesca Hardy and Max Walker?' A woman stood in the doorway, her face creasing into a smile as her eyes alighted on them. Or, more specifically, Rosie. 'My last appointment of the day. I love doing births. Come on through.'

Max hesitated for a second, his hand lingering over the handle of the car seat. Then Fran smiled.

'Go on. You better get some practise in for tonight.'

* * *

Ostensibly, Cal was catching up on paperwork. Always his least favourite part of the job, it had taken an ear-bashing from a combined force of Louise and Connie to persuade him that perhaps he might turn his mind to the piles of paper he'd generated over the past couple of shifts.

In reality, he'd spent the past twenty minutes clicking his pen in and out, and in again, whilst staring blankly at the folder in front of him. Trying to decipher his scribbled notes at the time of treatment would have been enough of a challenge without his mind being almost wholly distracted by a plethora of things, few of which he really wanted to dwell on. That was why he'd latched onto this one thing, a tiny trivial problem which was nothing to do with him anyway, and was running with it.

Rosie Walker. Fran was right: it did have a certain power behind it. Not being versed in these things, Cal didn't know if it was the combination of consonants or the matching long vowel sounds, but they did seem to suit each other: Rosie Walker. It wasn't a name you could really find fault with – but Cal was having a go anyway.

Fran hadn't mentioned this plan to anybody, including Max by the looks of it, which did make it more palatable to Cal. If Cal had given it any thought (and he hadn't), he might have expected this, given how much time his sister had been spending with the porter. She'd said he was going to be involved, and this was the ultimate in involved. They probably shouldn't have been as shocked.

But shocked they had been, and Cal continued to be, because he was still thinking of the Fran he'd known all of his life, the careful, methodical, fearsomely independent sister. As she'd shown over the past year, she wasn't the kind to ask for help, or even believe she needed it. Yet here she was, tying her daughter to a name, a person, who she really knew nothing about. That wasn't usual behaviour. People might say that it made little difference, that it was _nice_ even, that she was involving Max in such a way. Cal didn't. Sharing a name didn't equal involvement, didn't make somebody more reliable or tied to you. He knew that from bitter experience.

So, no, he wasn't thrilled by Fran's choices.

'Ethan, the patient in HDC, Mrs Tapton?' Ash began the conversation in a particularly telling tone of voice which interrupted Cal's thoughts. It was a tone of voice usually directed towards Cal himself, so it was a novelty not to be chastised.

'I know,' Ethan put in.

'She's about to go past the four-hour window.'

'I know! I was just… hoping her daughter would get here.'

'We can't just leave her on a trolley.'

'I know. I'll… sort it.' Ethan managed to hold it together until Ash had left, before he slumped onto the desk.

Abandoning his paperwork, Cal sat back in his chair and said, 'You've still not told her then?'

Ethan rolled his eyes, and Cal wished he hadn't spoken, or at least thought about his tone of voice. It sounded critical, which hadn't been his intention, at least not wholly.

'I'm waiting for her daughter to arrive.'

'You've been waiting _four hours_.'

'Cal, for once, unusually, does have a point.' Lily, hovering nearby, didn't miss an opportunity to stick the knife in even as she supported Cal's words. 'It would be best if she was sent upstairs.'

Ethan still looked pained, and Cal said what he thought might help. 'You could always send her upstairs and get them to break the news.'

'Because that's incredibly ethical,' Ethan remarked, throwing his brother a filthy look, much more than was actually warranted in Cal's opinion. 'I'll tell her, I just… want to do it right.'

'Do you want someone to come with you?'

Too late, Cal realised that should have been his line, not Lily's. Today, of all days, he should be at least trying to be supportive of his little brother. It wasn't a position he felt entirely comfortable in, so instead he did his best to prevent anyone else taking it up.

'Yeah, alright, Lily. Ethan's perfectly capable. Aren't you?' he asked, and he was immediately sent reeling back thirty years, Andrew Knight's voice ringing in his ears as it was insisted that Cal was just fine, _aren't you_ , he wasn't going to cry, _are you?_ He'd never realised how much he could sound like his father.

Ethan stared at his brother for a long moment before nodding. 'Of course.' Then he walked away.

'Well, that was a touching display of brother affection, as always,' Lily remarked.

She was acerbic by nature. Sometimes she was even funny with it. She was certainly less frustratingly annoying than she had been when she'd first started. But Cal wasn't paying attention to that anymore.

'Shut up, Lily.'

* * *

Elsie was having a great day. She told Ethan as much as he apologised for the umpteenth time about how long she'd been waiting. A chat to Robyn, a cup of tea and a biscuit: she really didn't ask for much. Somehow, that made Ethan feel even worse about the news he had to deliver.

So he hesitated and prevaricated, mumbling and stumbling and making a terrible mess, so much so that, finally, Elsie interrupted him.

'Are you trying to say that I need to stay in hospital?'

Letting out a long held breath, Ethan nodded. 'Yes. Yes, I am. You've suffered a fracture to your left hip. It may need surgery.'

'I've never had surgery before,' Elsie said conversationally.

Trying not to be put off, Ethan continued with, 'There's a bed upstairs all ready for you. We're still waiting for your daughter to get here, I'm afraid.'

'There's a surprise.' Elsie gave a small giggle. 'Always late, that's our Jenny. So, when am I going upstairs?'

Ethan couldn't help it. Any response he might have hoped to make died away as he stared at her, the woman he'd been working all day to try to protect. He'd flouted hospital regulations in his attempts to cushion the blow that would come anyway. Now it seemed that Elsie was more capable of dealing with this news than Ethan had given her credit for: perhaps more able to deal with it than Ethan himself.

'Sometimes,' Elsie said now, eyes twinkling, 'it's better to just get it over with. Better to tackle it head on. Or so I've always found.'

Her sentiments lingered long after she'd been taken upstairs, immediately striking up a conversation with the porter. Tackling things head on had never been Ethan's way, because doing so usually caused an argument. Conflict wasn't his thing. He supposed it was nobody's idea of a great time, but in his family, the desire to avoid conflict was engrained so much so that it would never have crossed his mind. Until Elsie had spoken. _Until Tiffany had._

Cal was humming when Ethan came into the staffroom. Humming. Ethan had no idea what he had found to be humming about, but it made an irritating situation even worse.

'I wondered what had happened to you. Where've you been?'

Ethan ignored the fact that it almost sounded like Cal had missed him. 'Doing my job.'

As usual, Cal didn't take the hint. 'So, drink tonight?'

Pulling his things out of his locker, Ethan set his jaw firmly. 'I'm busy.'

'Doing what?' The scoffing was obvious; Cal was unable to believe that his brother would have plans which didn't involve him. 'Sack it off.'

'I'm seeing Tiffany.'

Silence. Then, 'What are you doing that for?'

Throwing his brother a look of disgust, Ethan slammed his locker door shut and made to leave.

'You can't be serious?'

Ethan tried hard not to let his voice wobble, not to scream or shout, not to let any vestige of his anger creep onto the surface. 'Have you even remembered what day it is?'

'Wednesday. You don't usually go out on a school-night,' Cal joked.

Any sympathy Ethan might have felt ran out. 'It's Mum's birthday. And… you forgot.' He shrugged. 'So I'm seeing Tiffany this evening. I'll… see you at home.'

He was almost out of the door before Cal said, 'I didn't forget.' Then, more loudly, 'I didn't forget. I just didn't want to remember.'

'Yeah, well, it's not always about you.'

'We could… do something?' Cal shrugged, a too-casual, too-late gesture. As if it was that easy to make up for this. As if his little-boy helplessness would work on Ethan as it had always worked on their mother.

'Like I said. I'm seeing Tiffany.'

The door slam was unnecessary but felt almost right. Ethan tried to put it to one side, and spent most of the evening wondering how Cal managed that.

* * *

Fran could virtually feel the irritation coming off of Max in waves, even as his face and voice displayed no evidence of being even mildly put-out. But he had to be slightly vexed by her constant interruptions of a routine he knew well enough to carry out without supervision. She didn't know why she was being so difficult.

'It might be too hot,' she said as he brought the bottle towards their daughter's mouth.

'I've tested it.'

The lack of a squeal from Rosie suggested it was in fact a perfectly adequate temperature.

'You might find it easier if you tilt it a bit more.'

No reply, but he didn't take on her advice, and Rosie continued happily sucking away as if she hadn't seen a bottle for the longest time.

'Don't let her gulp it too fast.' Still no reply from him, and Fran felt yet another piece of advice dressed up as an irritating comment come spilling from her lips: 'And don't forget-'

'Fran.' All he said was her name, and not even in exasperation. He was even smiling, almost laughing, as he dragged his eyes away from Rosie and looked at her.

'Sorry. I'm sorry, I know, I'm being a nightmare.' She slumped back against the arm of the sofa, her legs knotted together beside her.

'You're fine.' Max was definitely laughing now, having to rearrange Rosie in his arms in order to avoid jerking her too much. 'Just… I thought the point of this was so you could go to bed early. If we're both sitting up, I might start to feel redundant.' Then, as if she hadn't got the hint, he added, 'Go to bed.'

Fran glanced at the clock. It was pretty late and, she realised with a dizzying sense, she'd been awake almost twenty-four hours. It made the shifts she'd pulled as a junior doctor look like parties. By rights, she should have been asleep as soon as Max had taken over duties with Rosie. Instead, her brain had woken up, as though somebody else relieving her of her sole parental responsibilities meant she had excess space for all manner of thoughts.

'I'm not even that tired,' she said now, watching as the bottle moved slightly, her daughter having an alarmingly strong mouth.

'You look exhausted.'

'You do know that's not a compliment?' she fired back, before sighing. 'I know. And I am tired, I suppose. I'm just not sure I'll sleep. It's not even her, mostly. It's me.' Then, aware how self-pitying she sounded, she made a conscious effort to sit up straighter. 'Sorry, I'm being pathetic.'

Max didn't reply. She wasn't sure whether that was confirmation or denial. Maybe he always stayed so quiet around her because he didn't want to offend her; it seemed like the kind of nice yet honest thing he'd do. It wasn't doing anything to alleviate her embarrassment at becoming the kind of incoherent rambling mess of a woman she saw on far too frequent an occasion in the ED. Under the circumstances, she thought retiring to bed probably was her best option, even if she didn't sleep; at least she wouldn't be able to make an even bigger idiot of herself than she already had.

'What are you worrying about?'

She frowned. 'Sorry?'

'If it's not Rosie keeping you awake, and you haven't got some hot stud-muffin of a lover that none of us know about-

'Stud-muffin?'

'- then what's keeping you awake?'

Fran regarded him closely for several seconds. From anybody else, she'd have brushed the question underneath the carpet so quickly they wouldn't have even noticed. Ethan and Cal would get nowhere with a question like that, wouldn't even entice her into answering them properly for even half an instant. She wouldn't say she was exactly dishonest when it came to things like this. She just didn't always give herself the opportunity to be entirely truthful.

Why Max was different, she had no idea. There was something about the way he looked at her though, as if whatever she said wouldn't surprise or shock him in any way. He didn't look away or blink or act as though there was somewhere else he'd rather be. Fran wasn't used to that.

'Do you really like the name Rosie?'

Maybe she'd misjudged him, because his eyebrows raised slightly, his face registering complete confusion. 'What?'

'Rosie. Do you really like it?' A strange half-giggle rose up out of her throat, a sign of exhaustion or the beginnings of some sort of psychosis. 'You wanted to know.'

' _That_ keeps you awake at night?'

'Amongst other things.' And that wasn't even the most petty and strange. 'So?'

'You want me to answer that?'

'Yes.'

He actually considered it. He wasn't telling her to be quiet or stop being weird or get some much needed sleep. He was listening to her question.

'It wouldn't have been my first choice.'

It wasn't the answer she wanted. 'What would have been?'

'I have no idea.' He gave a small laugh. 'I've never thought about it. This seriously worries you?'

'I just thought… I made the decision without really asking you and it only occurred to me the other day that I should have asked you.'

'Trust me, you were welcome to that decision. If it had been left to me, she'd be Baby Walker for at least a year.' He flashed her a smile. 'Honestly, Fran, it's… fine, it's… good. She looks like a Rosie.'

'What does a Rosie look like?'

'Not a clue. But seriously. Don't you think people sort of… _become_ their name? Like, whatever you call them, their name eventually fits them? One day, we'll think a Rosie looks like… well… Rosie.'

Fran found her face creasing into a smile at his words. It was such a simple idea, yet one she loved the minute he'd voiced it. That her daughter would become the standard for all other Rosies she ever met. It made who she was suddenly infinitely more important.

'So is that worry number one ticked off of the list?'

'Oh, that doesn't even make top ten.' She was only half-joking, but she thought he probably didn't need to know this. The current top-ten worries, in no particular order because they didn't tend to align themselves neatly, included: was Rosie still breathing? Had she worn all of the first size clothes they'd been bought yet? Where would they spend Christmas? When was Rosie supposed to start lifting her own head up and what if she didn't? What was going to happen when her maternity leave finished? What if Rosie became allergic to something? She'd lost count of how many times she'd got up in the middle of the night to check the labels on Rosie's unworn clothing, or to simply listen to her breathing. She suspected sharing this with Max would necessitate some sort of psychiatric assessment.

'Have you always been like this?'

'Pretty much.' She gave him a rueful look. 'I suppose you're one of those people who puts their head on the pillow and goes out instantly?'

'Sometimes I don't even make the pillow.'

'If you weren't holding Rosie right now, I could hit you.'

He grinned wickedly. Then, gently, he said, 'Take the night off, Fran. Just one night. Even you can do that.'

She let out a long breath. 'Yeah, I guess I can. Thank you.'

'Any time. I've got it all under control here.'

Too quickly for Fran to intervene, Rosie was spectacularly sick all over him. The look on his face brought on a fresh round of laughter.

* * *

It was a beautiful evening, one of those rare summer nights when the light seemed to last forever and the air was fresh and clean. It was an evening for sitting in gardens with glasses of wine, and strolls by the riverside. Ethan expected it would be busy outside of his flat right now, with couples meandering along the two-path, hands lazily entwined, secrets whispered on the breeze.

The last place anybody should be on an evening like this was in a cemetery. People could plant flowers and leave balloons, but there was no getting away from what this was. No amount of sunshine would make any difference.

Ethan hadn't been here for weeks. Diana's grave, with its still shiny headstone, was bare of flowers. Looking around, the surrounding graves had fared little better in this heat, and Ethan wondered which was worse: having no flowers or the dried shrivelled remains of what had once been flowers but had been decimated by the sun. It was a tough call.

He ran his eyes over the inscription again. She'd chosen it, back before the illness and the medication had rendered it impossible for her to make any choices at all. 'Simple,' she'd said; 'honest,' she'd said. He supposed it was almost both of those things, or as simple and honest as Diana Hardy's life had ever been.

'She kept her married name,' Tiffany said now, her first words in the longest time Ethan could ever remember her having kept quiet.

He nodded.

'But… didn't your dad walk out on her?'

He nodded again.

'Jeez.'

He knew what she meant. As soon as he'd been old enough to know what any of it meant, he'd questioned her decision as well. She should have hated David, should have wanted to cut him and his new-family out of their lives. Instead, she'd embraced them, treated Fran like her own relative, a niece or god-daughter, shared school-runs with Claire as if it was no big deal. She was Diana Hardy in all the ways she could have been. She just hadn't been married to David Hardy.

Her open-heart was what Cal had been looking for today, Ethan realised now. It wasn't as though her eldest son hadn't forgotten her birthday before. Birthdays and Mother's Day and sometimes even, somehow, Christmas. He'd turn up, empty-handed, apologetic and charming, and she'd forgive him, pleased just to have him there with her. It had been the same throughout her illness; she'd never once complained about his absences, never once berated him for not being there when she needed him. She loved everything about both of her sons, the good and the bad. Ethan expected Cal missed that about her the most.

The epitaph was factual and simple: dates and names. She'd chosen one isolated line of poetry to complete the headstone, unremarkable in the grand scheme of things: _Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me_. It summed her up so perfectly, though, the selflessness and desire for others to live their very best lives. She was a better person than Ethan could ever be; he expected he needed prayers much more than she did.

When he spoke, he wasn't sure whose benefit he was speaking for. 'I think sometimes it's possible to love somebody and not be able to be with them at the same time.' Emboldened he added, 'I think she loved my dad till the day she died.' It was obvious really: she'd never met a man to match up to David Hardy. Having him in her life was more important to her than anything, including her own dignity, something only more apparent when Cal's dad had disappeared into the ether. Diana would have forgiven him anything, so long as he was there. It seemed that was a habit she had.

Now, remembering himself, Ethan tried to pull himself together. 'Sorry. You don't want to listen to this.'

'It's alright.' Tiffany shrugged. 'I've never really heard you talk about her before.'

Because Cal didn't like him to. Forgetting was his brother's standard way of coping.

'You didn't have to come here tonight.'

Another shrug. 'Who else was gonna come?'

A fair point: nobody else had been queueing up for this job. Not that Ethan would have offered the slot to anybody else. He hadn't even known he was going to come here until Tiffany had got into his car, handing her evening over to him on a platter. It was the last place he might ever have imagined standing side by side with the paramedic. But he was glad he had. There was nowhere else he could have contemplated being tonight.

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome.'

* * *

 ** _Next time: You Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone_**

 _'Me and Ethan are just fine.'_

 _'That's why you forgot your mom's birthday, right?'_

 _He half-choked on his cigarette as he stared at her in disbelief. She knew. She knew it all. Ethan had told her. This was… unsettling._

 _Even so, he wasn't going to let that myth perpetuate any longer. 'I didn't forget! I just didn't want to remember!'_

 _'Isn't that the same thing?'_

 _'No! God!'_

* * *

Lyrics/chapter title from 'You've Got a Friend' by a whole bunch of different artists


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